Fallen Angel, Rising Phoenix
by Kepouros
Summary: There's something about you: you're bruised and bloodied and violated, but your spirit still shines through your eyes. It strikes me that you just might bounce back from this. The recovery of a rape victim Barney Ross finds in Nepal, and takes stateside with him. How will they fit? Can she even be healed? Convincing, I promise. Rated M, you've been warned. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

I find you tied hand and foot in a shithole of a hut in Nepal. Naked and smeared with filth and gagged with a bloody rag, presumably the one they use to stuff your more-used orifice when they're done with you. I shot the guy who was busy with you when I came in, not even sparing a second look at the scumbag, and was pulled for the briefest moment out of my combat mode when our eyes met.

My God, your eyes. Staring at me, daring me closer over a rag soaked with blood and semen, you looked like you could light wet tinder with that look. You looked like you wanted to kill something. There's something about you...

Christmas pokes his head into the hut, and I am reminded we are on mission: clear out this encampment of soldiers, poised on a vital waterway. The mission is done, and early, but now we wait for our exfiltration by water. Christmas is rattling off stats of enemies killed and ammo left, but stops short when he sees what I'm staring at.

I turn my head to glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "Thanks, Christmas. Give me a minute, woul'ya?"

My friend hesitates for a split second before he decides to trust me not to commit a warcrime on you. We are left alone.

What am I doing? I think as the plan fantasms in my mind, my mission and this developement warring for first place. My eyes flick over you perfunctorily, assessing wounds on your naked body, which are many. What am I doing? You're just one more victim in the veritable sea of victims I swim in. You're just one more violated woman with maple wood skin, raped and bloodied and beaten and sorry. I take no pause for your type, I can't in my line of work.

But there's something about you...and it snares my insides like a gut hook.

I don't know what I'm doing. But I'll figure it out on the way.

The first thing I do is take my broad shoulders out of the sling of my M16, and slowly put it down. Then, I unstrap the thigh holsters of my secondaries and, looking you square in the eye, take off the belt they're attached to. You choke back a whimper at the all-too-familiar action, and it makes me want to put another round through the corpse in the corner. You know, for flavor.

The only thing left is my armor, and I leave it on, but I get on my knees next to your right foot. You start fighting your bonds again when I draw my 14-inch bowie knife, but it doesn't last long. The wire is wrapped around your ankle and a support strut and it cuts deep again, fresh blood leaking from the marks.

"Shh, shh," I intone, trying to calm you down. Your eyes went batshit wild when you saw the knife, and I stick it in the ground for a moment to get a good, firm grip on your heel, taking the pressure off the wounds inflicted by the wire. You choke back another whimper, and my gut aches a little. My hand could encompass your entire sole, easily.

You're panting with terror afresh, the whites of your coffee eyes glowing the the dim light, but they meet mine for reassurance. It's irrational for you to look to me for comfort, but I bet the first friendly face you've seen with his dick still in his pants. I seem to be both your new fear, and your possible, maybe, fat-chance savior.

Not that I'm anyone's savior.

I pick up the knife again, and you flinch, but don't tug. The wire cuts easily, and I carefully unfuse it from the gouges in your skin. You bite down on the gag, screwing up your already screwed up face, and bear the pain. It's a cakewalk compared to what you've been through.

From the other side of the wall of rushes, I hear Gunnar ask Yin Yang: "What's he think he's doing? Aside from wasting our time."

Yin Yang sticks up for me. "Whatever he thinks he needs to do."

What AM I doing? The same damn phrase chases its tail through my head. I'm freeing you, I think to myself, to try to satisfy it. Then what? it rejoins.

Then I'll...I'll...

Your heel slips from my grasp, slick with fresh blood, and you close your legs as best you can. It sends tears to your eyes, dampening the fire there the slightest bit. I hear a joint click where your thigh meets your hip, obviously abused if not displaced. Your legs have been splayed for God knows how many days.

My knee clicks back an echo as I repeat the process to your left foot, and your bloody flower is no longer exposed. Your breasts are bruised, I notice as I kneel next to your left hand. They used twine on your razor thin wrists, which has done almost as much damage, but there's no arterial spray when I extract it gingerly from your skin. A sliver of white bone shows. You immediately take the gag out of your mouth, and your face gains a whole new capacity to express. Now I can read clearly the pain etched there, in your busted and cracked lips, and the indomitable spirit touted by your broken nose.

It's true, I can see it: you're busted up, but they didn't break your spirit. It hits me that you can actually bounce back from this. I've never been afforded the luxury of thinking though the injustice of rape, not really, much less the recovery process. But I know not many women are as resilient as you. I know resilience: that tough stuff me and my men are made of. It's woven into our bones. If I were to examine the bone showing in your wrist now, I bet I'd see the same resilience.

With the rest of your face in play, your eyes have a whole new facet. You peg me sharply, searchingly, as you cover your breasts with your free hand, and the nipple that rests in the palm of it drips blood through your fingers. I can't help but think, you poor thing. And I realize I can't put any face anywhere else with that phrase. I've seen violence and the ugly horrors of war: hundreds, if not thousands of faces. Not one of them sticks out to me, because I purposefully forget them. I have enough trouble dealing with the gravity of my job, deep down: I don't need any more trouble sleeping. But you...

"Exfil in ten, Barney," Toll Road says from the entrance.

"Got it," I reply shortly. You jerked in surprise at his voice, and it ruined the air of calm that I have carefully spun around you (or more accurately the intense, mutually searching staredown). With one more slice, I free you completely. You struggle into a sitting position, grunting quietly in pain, but I don't dare touch you to help you, not yet.

To your credit, you don't crabwalk out of my reach. I am marginally shocked, but secretly delighted.

"Barney," you croak. I'm fully shocked, this time. My throat hurts just hearing you.

"Yeah," I say, letting a little of the strange happiness I feel seep through. "You speak English?"

"Yes," you reply, chastely folding your knees to the side. My God, when you sit up straighter, you look like a goddess of war and womanhood: like Artemis might. I see your nude body, yes; I am a man, after all. But my vision is mostly eaten up by the aching, stoic, hardwon beauty about you: the way a blade emerges from the forge covered in soot.

I shouldn't be looking at you: you've been lechered far enough. Maybe you've grown beyond the shame of nudity, or maybe you are too in shock to care, but you don't show any hate for my gaze. My heart thumps. There's something about you...

My emotions are reeling and this is not the time or place. I am momentarily disgusted at myself, so I abruptly turn away and start stripping the clothes off the soldier I killed.

"What are you doing?" you ask. You don't mean the repurposing of clothes. You mean, why am I taking notice of you.

I am finally faced with the unavoidable question, and I have a decision to make. I can sling my guns back on and walk out of this hut, free and clear, and eventually drink this your face away. Or...

"I'm taking you with me," I say carefully, trying to emphasize that I wasn't going to force you. What if you say no? What if this silence lasted forever, my tacit answer? What if you break down right here and now and start sobbing your long journey to recovery? What if - ?

You have somehow managed to rock to your knees, and are gently taking the stained and smelly shirt from my hand, which had been fisted. You put it on slowly, and I can hear your occassional moan of pain as stiff joints move again, before you break my wait.

"Okay."

The pants come next, and I listen to you get your legs into them before your movement stops. A hint of embarassment tints your voice. "I need help."

I'd steadfastly (if belatedly) been keeping my back turned, but now my shoulders tense. We're moving out of that imaginary bubble now, the savior/victiom facade. Time for the first hurdle. I turn slowly and take a single step to your side, then, thinking better of it, to your back. I carefully thread my hands under your arms and, with caution to your muffled gasps of pain, raise you from the floor. I've curled heavier in the gym. You button and zip the pants quickly, while I stare at the club bruise on your shoulder.

"Thank you," you say. I almost shake my head at your manners in the face of such a ludicrous situation. Experimentally, I ease you into some of your own weight, but your knees buckle with a cry reluctant to pass your lips. So I duck my head under one of your arms.

A bead of sweat from your brow hits my cheek as you shake your head. "Can't do it," you grind out.

My jaw locks: you WILL make it out of this hut. I reorient myself to face your side and position my left arm behind your knees. You look up as I look down, and I catch you as I sweep your feet off the ground. This causes you pain as your body folds around the center of your abuse, and your face seizes. I can't help but think it's like the face a newborn baby makes as it breathes its first.

You're incredibly light as I carry you into the streaks of hazy dawn filtering through the forest canopy. My team is there, stationed lookout all around, and they stare as I carry you down to the river, where I hear Hale Ceasar motoring up with our transport.

"Get my guns," I tell no one in particular. I'm too busy looking at your face, eyes closed and resting against my chest. Your bloody hands are curled at your collar, holding the shirt closed beyond the inherent three buttons as you breathe carefully around your myriad hurts.

"Hang on," I say, so quietly only you can hear.

"I will," you whisper.


	2. Chapter 2

I flash Hale Ceasar the Look as he asks his dumb questions, "What are you doing?" and "Who is that?" He shuts up, but I can feel the curiousity radiating off of him. He'll have to wait until the gang gets down the hill and they can all gossip like preteen girls.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn with you still in my arms to regard Christmas with another Look. "What?"

"What're you doing?" he asks me quietly, without judgement. I feel you incline your head to stare at him. He must've hauled ass to get down the hill before the rest of the gang, just to talk privately. He's lugging my guns, too. Your head shifts again, and you look up at me, expecting an answer, same as him.

"'m not sure exactly," I tell him honestly. He's my best friend: I can tell him exactly what's on my mind - or not, like right now. "I'll update you when I figure it out."

Christmas studies my face for a moment, like he was looking for something. When he turns away, he looks like he's found it. "Saddle up, fellas! If we hurry, we can hit happy hour at Point's!" I do the math on the time, and he's right. A couple-few hours of flight, and we're back on friendly soil. What then?

Despite the concern about my little carry-on, there is a general cry of assent as they splash into the shallows to chickenwing over the guardrail of the commandeered boat. It sits six inches lower with them all on board. I slosh through the knee-high water without a problem, ignoring the skitter of a riversnake across its surface not four feet from me, and eye the guardrail at my chest level. You grimace, like it's your fault.

Ceasar appears. He pauses to look at your bruises, busted lips, and broken nose. "Damn, little lady," he says gently, his tone like one talking to a skitish horse. "I'd hate to see the other guy."

You don't smile. How could you? But your eyes brighten a bit, and my heart with them.

Ceasar stretches out his arms to mirror mine. "Here."

I whip out another, more kind Look to you as your hand twists in my vest strap. "It's okay." Then I hand you off to him.

Your eyes widen almost comically as he hefts you with even less effort than me. Seriously, you weigh less than most of his gear. One side of my mouth tips up, but I hide it in my hop into the boat, flecking those nearby with more water.

I take you back from Ceasar, and you sigh so softly I thought it was the breeze. Apparently, you aren't abiding by my touch for ultilitarian reasons. "Let's motor, guys," I say triumphantly.

The jungle swallows our craft, and the sounds it makes.

* * *

The boat ride is easy, except for the occassional bump that jars your fitful dozing in my lap. The guys occassionally sneak glances our way, but hold their silence. That, in itself, deserves a medal.

We troll into a bay with a retracted treeline and skid to a stop up on the coarse sand shore, and Gunnar starts ripping the camo cloth cover from our ride. Santa's smiling face greets us like an old friend as we disembark.

I wonder how I'll pilot the plane with you in my arms. They aren't tired yet, but reaching over you might prove hard.

"Mind if I keep my license current?" asks Yin Yang nonchalantly.

"Be my guest," I rumble. My voice wakes you again. It seems like you're dead woman walking, figuratively speaking. I know that traumatic experiences require sleep: the human brain can only take so much. I know what it's like to crawl into a bunk with worry and strife, pass out and wake up with your heart a little lighter. Maybe that's exactly what you need now. Your eyelids droop and you go out again.

I step onto the plane. Everyone is in their traditional seat: some against the wall, some in the ripped up seats. I settle on a corner, thump my back against the cold metal, and slide down without dislodging you. Success.

Christmas is last in the door, and he latches it with a shriek of metal. Our eyes meet again, and he nods his head. That nod means everything to me, every sentiment without words. I'm with you in this. I've got your back. He hands me a canteen full of water, and I take it, take a swig gratefully, and nudge you awake to drink. You guzzle about half, and promptly fall asleep again, hiccupping at the sudden intrusion on your sunken stomach. I can't help but smile a little.

Yin Yang taxis us off the beach, into the water, and finally into the air. I prop one knee up against some cargo boxes, arrange you against the inside of my leg leaning into me, and wrap you in my arms. It'll be several hours before we land again. I have time to think on flights like this. Sometimes that's a good thing, like now, and other times it's not.

My brain finally sputters out the entire plan it's been cooking since I met your eyes. I'm not just taking you with me: I'm taking you _home _with me. The ferocity of the thought worries me, in a distant way. A part of me screams that this is not a safe way to feel. I shake it off, but it persists in other ways. This is the easiest part, getting you home, it whispers. What about getting you seen by a doctor? It takes me a minute to come up with that one: it would be rather hard to explain you, much less your injuries, to a VA hospital. But I've got it.

What about getting your mind better? Bodies heal, but minds are tricky. I frown at the seemingly enormous task, but my eternal soldier's mind starts breaking it down into bite-sized chunks that I either address now, or will address when they come.

By the time we're halfway home, I've got about fifty percent of this ironed out. And the rest, little lady, is entirely up to you.

I join you in Snoozeville quickly, soothed by the rasp of Ceasar's whetstone on his straight razor and the good-natured barbs of the men.

* * *

Yin Yang is doing an admirable job piloting the ducttape and prayers rattle trap. Christmas is sitting copilot, and everyone else is sleeping. "You think he know what he's doing?" Yin Yang asks softly.

"He wouldn't be sleeping if he hadn't figured out everything there was to figure," Christmas replies. They both rotate to look into the cargo bay, where the incorrigible perfect soldier Barney Ross is asleep with a strange Nepalese woman snuggled against him like a limp doll, presumably still alive, covered in blood and so much more. What little bit of her skin shows beyond the scavenged BDU and Barney's veined arms is covered in bruises, cuts, and welts old and new.

"Bony little thing," Christmas comments, not unkindly. Indeed, the woman's ribs stick out like rebar, even through her shirt, and her dirty, bare feet may as well be under an X-ray for all the veins and tendons and tarsals showing.

Yin Yang is contemplative for several minutes, but eventually he nods and his shoulders visibly relax. That's the type of trust they hold in the brotherhood. "He's got a long way to go," the Asian says simply.

Christmas nods. He knows what he means: a long way to go before Barney figures out he's falling for a fallen angel...and even longer before she is whole enough to reciprocate.

* * *

We all wake up within seconds of each other as we feel the plane begin to descend. My body tightens, and that wakes you, too. You look up at me with a silent question, and I realize two things: one, you're not a chatterbox, but that's somewhat expected given your mental and physical condition; and two, I need something pretty basic if we are to go any further.

The pressure of the mission is gone, but the urgency of your wounds still looms. "We're landing," I grumble. "What's your name?" I feel stupid I haven't asked sooner.

You try to speak, fail, swallow, and try again. "Meera." Little less croaky, but hardly a songbird.

Meera. I can't say I've liked many names as far as names go, but that one fits. "Hold on, Meera."

The plane bounces lightly four times as the landing gear makes contact, but Yin Yang is proficient in everything, and so we back into the hangar with no trouble. The concrete and metal structure is both our base of operations and my living quarters. The rear third of the building is cordoned off with a fairly seamless wall of spare timber and courrogated metal. I wrestle myself to my knees, then to my feet, and the movement makes you hiss with pain. I am reminded of the awful state you're in when I regard the bloodstain your ass left on the ground between my legs.

I've got to get you to some medical care, and fast. I give Gunnar a healthy kick as I pass him. "Wake the hell up, Gunnar. We're home." The Swede halts in mid-snore, chokes, and grumbles into action.

I pause to watch the guys start their post-mission breakdown of gear. They're still talking about victory drinks at Point's, and some good greasy bar food. Our bikes are waiting for us in the hangar, covered with burlap to hide them, but I scarcely think you'll be able to straddle a bike. Besides, I'll have to put you down for a minute to lock up my gear. I decide to kill two birds with one stone. I'll have to come back and clean my guns and equipment later.

"Do you want to wash off?" I ask. "For now, I need to pass you off as American. Doctors tend to ask a lot of questions." Yes, you're still bleeding from your insides. Yes, you're tired and aching and abused. You've been though hell. But I need to get you seen by a doctor, and although I have one in mind who can keep quiet, I have to take you out in public to get there. A soldier-looking guy with an ugly face carrying a severely beaten woman? Yeah, that'll go over well.

You see the reasoning, I can tell. Doctors can treat you better when they can see the problems. You also infer, with some evident disbelief, from my statement that I'm not just going to drop you at the nearest opportunity. I watch the realization flicker behind your eyes and try to measure your enthusiasm. But secondary to that, you seem to be weighing the price of ridding yourself of all the filth on your skin versus the hurting it will take to get there. Finally, you nod.

"Hey, guys, I'm gonna pass. See ya." They say goodbye easily, univested as they are, and continue their routines. I don't blame them, hell no. This is my mission, not theirs.

I steer us toward the cordoned off area of the hangar, shoulder open the door, and key the simple digital combination into the lock of the second door. "This is where I live."

In front of us is largest open room, resplendent with GoodWill couch, old TV, a workbench for guns, another for electronics, a shit ton of exercise equipment, and a lot of old crap. In the corner of this room is a set of army bunks, the bottom of which is my bed and the top which is storage. I take you immediately left to the line of showers, and shoulder the curtain open to the only one I use. I put you down gingerly for the first time in hours, and you prop up against the wall, looking like you're about to climb Everest.

"Think you can do it?" I ask. It's actually in question.

Your eyes steel, and I see a bit of that resilience eeking through, and you nod.

"I'll track down some clean clothes. The tap runs hot, be careful." I leave you, trying to hide my reluctance, and I hear the water start. Seconds later, a slopping sound of the shirt hitting the ground outside the stall.

I monitor your progress by way of sound from the storage room to the right of my front door as I strip off my body armor, my uniform, and slap on some civie clothes. Then, I select digital camo BDUs and the smallest pair of boots I have in stockpile. I measure the soles against my palm, reckoning the size against the foot I held in the hut. The pants splat outside the shower, a long minute after the shirt. I grab a drab green woolen blanket to towel you dry, and pause to think. Did I leave a bottle of shampoo in there? A scrub? I know for sure there's a razor. What can I say, I'm a bachelor.

It may be cruel to ask you to wash your own wounds, but I keep hitting the wall of inappropriateness and bouncing off. I patch up the guys all the time, no problems there. In basic, there isn't even walls between the showers, just one long line of shower heads with shitty pressure and cold water. The difference now is that I don't want to further flay your dignity, even if your nakedness is nothing perverse to me.

Suddenly, I hear a mighty THUD. I jerk, that 'oh, shit' feeling gripping me, and dash back to the showers, boots pounding. "Meera, you okay?"

No answer. Shit! I whip back the curtain and you're curled in the bottom of the shower stall in a puddle of pink diluted blood, the water still pelting you. I slap the water off and feel your pulse, an unfamiliar panic rising in me. The throb in your carotid is strong, but you're unconscious. You must've slipped and bumped your head.

Shit, I want to kick myself. I shouldn't have left you alone, politeness be damned.

Wasting no more time, I hustle back to the storage room, stuff all the things I'd gathered into a gunny sack, and grab the green blanket before running back. I wrap you in the warm, scratchy material and in seconds we're in my only vehicle with four wheels: a nondescript '90s blue Ford pickup.

"You'll be okay," I say, more to myself than anything. I'm scared for you, scared because I'm actually afraid, and pissed/beyond-words-furious I let you down. Gritting my teeth as you half-wake and groan with pain, I gun the engine and hit the backroad into town, my headlights cutting the falling dusk.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a free clinic in downtown run by an old friend, and I navigate us to the alley behind the building in record time. I hop out, pound on the back door, and then jog to the passenger side to gather you up.

The door opens and light streams into the alley, momentarily hurting my eyes as I push past the nurse in my way. "I need to see Gary, ASAP," I growl. I think my urgent voice scares the nurse a bit, but it's her job to ask useless questions. "What is the nature of her injury, sir?"

I want to throttle something. Can't they guess? Am I not communicating the emergency here? The corner of the blanket falls away from your bare body, and your mottled purple-blue-green left breast shows. "She's been gang raped," I spit, letting my anger at myself give it sting.

The nurse inhales sharply. "Step in that room, I'll get Doc Gary now."

Laying you on the table under the bright flourescent lights, I get a good hard look at just how terrible you are. The hut was dim, the plane was dimmer, and my lights are always going out. Now, on your clean body, I see every bruise and gash. I _really _want to throttle something.

My damn heart hurts as I smooth the hair back from your face. It's long, wavy, lighter than your skin suggests it ought to be, and still damp. I shouldn't have waited. I fucked up my priorities. Getting you help should've been first, and your cover story second. I vow viciously not to let it happen again.

You moan and your eyes flutter. "Barney..." you murmur, your lips barely moving.

"Right here, Meera. I'm not going anywhere."

You squint as your eyes adjust to the harsh light. "I slipped," you say groggily.

"Yeah. We're at the free clinic now, getting you checked out."

You wince, and one tear escapes your eye. "Don't leave me."

I run a thumb over the wayward droplet. "I won't."

There's a knock on the door I forgot to close, and Gary's haggard and sleep deprived face greets me. "Hey, Ross, long time no see." He takes in Meera, wrapped in a blanket and sporting bruises and cuts everywhere visible, and his jaw clenches, but he keeps the tone of a professional. "Who's our patient?"

You turn your head to watch him move to your side as I supply, "Meera. She's been..."

"Yes, my nurse told me," interjects Gary, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Ever the infantryman, cutting to the chase. The Marines lost out when he retired. He looks you in the face, and he speaks with respect that I am secretly grateful for. It saves me the trouble of slugging him. "Miss Meera," he says gently. "I understand you've been through a terrible ordeal. But I promise, you're safe here." He glances up at me. "Between Ross and me, you'll be square in no time."

Your eyes flit to my face, and I give an assuring smile. I am hoping deep down that he's right.

A nurse comes in with a tray of surgical implements and dressings, and I say, "Close your eyes, it's okay." I turn away, mindful of your dignity as the nurse guides your knees up and out.

You bite your lower lip anxiously, but do as bade. My heart soars at the trust that one little action shows. The nurse and Gary peel back the blanket and get to work. Somewhere between the dressing of your ankles and the stitches between your legs, you flip your hand palm up and I cover it with mine. Your grip is tight as the necessary hurts are carried out, so I try to keep you occupied. "How old are you?" I ask in Nepali.

"Twenty-three," you reply in the same language. I feel Gary look up at me curiously, but I don't care. It's nothing personal. The less he knows, the better.

"How do you know English?"

"My father was a missionary. My mother was a native Nepali."

"Are they alive?"

"No. They died in a rebel attack when I was a baby."

I frown. "I'm sorry."

You move one shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. "I have made my peace with it."

That may be, but how will you make peace with this? Not even twelve hours ago, you were tied like an animal and being consecutively raped, beaten, and raped again. I can't say I fully understand the horrors you faced, but my experience and imagination help. My heart hurts for you. So terribly young, terribly scarred, terribly tough. Every tug of the stitches between your legs makes you wince, and causes a new tear slide to down your bruise-shadowed cheek, but you don't cry out. Damn, so tough. I catch the tears, but I know that so many more are to come.

Gary obscures your twitching face for a minute, and when he's done, your nose is cast and there are stitches in your temple. Your eyes are stinging even harder from the realignment of your nose. This is just the start of a long, long road. I wonder if you can make it. Then I think back to that dark hut, and the hellfire in your eyes when I saw you for the first time. You'll make it through, but what shape you wind up in on the other side is up to you.

I am brought out of my thoughts by the nurse clipping a thread definitively. "All done." I help you sit up, and you wrap the blanket around yourself more securely.

"I'll be back in ten seconds," I say. Only eight pass until I return with the gunny sack of clothes.

"Ma'am, I'll help you dress," offers the nurse.

"Can I talk to you, Ross?" Gary asks, motioning to the hall.

I'll be three steps away, but I look for your okay anyway. You nod, and I follow Gary outside to the alley. He taps out a cigarette and I supply him with my skull lighter. "Thanks," he says, smoke streaming from his mouth. He takes and drag and exhales it slowly before speaking. "She's in rough shape. No broken bones, which is a miracle, but the bone bruises are on fifty percent of her body. Trust me, they are less of a mercy. She's got five vaginal stitches, three in her temple and four on the underside of each wrist. I set her nose, wrapped her ankles, and gave her something for the pain." He glances at me. "My nurse is offering her a morning-after pill, if she wants it."

I stiffen. I hadn't even thought about if she might get pregnant.

"And I drew blood to check for STDs," Gary adds, taking another drag. "But Nepal is a hit-and-miss sort of place for that, so she might get lucky." He sees my narrowed eyes and explains, "I caught Nepali when you spoke, but I didn't understand it."

"What about mentally?" I ask, folding my arms and watching his smoke drift up.

"Hard to say," he muses. "I've dealt with rape cases before, and recovery is different for each one. The only thing I can do is encouage you to listen to her and be patient."

I nod. I could do that. And Gary is right to assume that I'm the only one that fits that profile.

"The stitches are dissolvable, and I'll call you with the test results." He finishes the cigarette and scuffs it out with his shoe. "Come back if you see anything unusual, or suicidal behavior."

"You think that's a possibility?" I ask as he pauses at the door.

Gary shrugs and replies carefully, "I don't know her, but if I had to guess, she's already decided to live."

That matches up with what I'm thinking. I give him a nod of gratefulness and he disappears into the clinic. I follow and meet the nurse at the door to the exam room, where she gives me a bottle of antibiotics. Gary must've forgone the prescription. Good man. The nurse gives me a pointed look and a surreptitious nod, I guess indicating that you opted for the morning-after pill.

You look a little brighter-eyed and a hell of a lot healthier, now that I have time to take you in. The BDUs are baggy on you, and the boots aren't laced because of the bandages, but your angular face is ruined by the nose cast. It makes your eyes look huge, like a baby bird's. The chocolate brown of them is stunning against the white of the tape.

"How you feelin'?" I query carefully.

You tip your head. "Better." You are adventurous enough to slide off the table and onto your own feet, mindful of your stitches. You wobble a little on your first step, though, and I'm there to steady you.

"Let's get you home." I support you by the hand and waist, just in case.

"Home?" You echo quizzically.

"Yeah," I say, attempting levity. "I've got a spare bunk with your name on it."

* * *

The digital clock in the truck informs me it's past midnight, but we both are pretty awake after the sleep on the plane. I wheel us through downtown, and you eat up whatever passes by the windows with hungry eyes.

"Never been to America?" I ask casually.

You take a moment to answer. "No. I have seen pictures, though. Read and heard stories." You turn in your seat to get another look at a group of Goths outside the movie theater. "Does not even compare."

I can't help but smile. Then your stomach growls and I want to kick myself. "Hungry?"

You nod sheepishly.

Minutes later, we've made it through an all-night drive through. I pick some bland food, because I'm willing to bet your stomach will reject the first few bites. You tear into the soupy mashed potatoes with gusto, and I munch on something wrapped in a bun. Water bottles are quickly emptied.

We make it all the way out of town and onto the backroads before you have to stop and heave. I hold your hair as you lean out the open door, but nothing comes up. Apparently, your body views the nutrition as more important than those painful awakenings of a starved stomach.

When you're ready, we move on, the stars over the fields occassionally obscured by the wafting clouds.

"How long are you going to keep me?" you ask, still staring out the window.

I frown, but my answer is truthful. "As long as you want to stay."

"I am - " you sniffle like you're trying to hide it. "I am not good company."

I drop my hand to yours on the seat. "'S'alright. Neither am I."

You half-sob, half-laugh, and it breaks me inside. "I will not be for a while," you continiue. You sound like you're about to go on deployment, and don't know when you'll be back.

"'S'alright," I repeat. "I'm here."

You shudder with a fresh sob, and finally, finally start your journey.


	4. Chapter 4

The night is long, longer than any stakeout, sniper approach, or torture I've endured. All I can do is hold you tight, and pray you don't bust into pieces. Because you're fracturing right now, along your seams, and I'm not sure I can keep you whole.

You sob like it's a marathon sport. But then, you've got a lot of grief and hurt to let out. It's like Hale Ceasar's French press: heat applied to a liquid under pressure. I wonder, as I cast my thoughts to the unfathomable future, what you're brewing into.

So I try to keep you whole for the first few hours, my arms locked around you and your tears and breath dampening my shirt front. I rock you occassionally, back and forth, on my creaky and crappy couch. Then it hits me that I'm only slowing your progress. You _need _to break, so that you can put yourself together again in a new configuration that suits what you want to be when this is done. You are trying to break, so you can become something better. It's the Basic Training mentality.

I keep holding you, but I no longer expend my will trying to stop your hurt. Instead, I wish for it to crash over you, to scatter your pieces like a tsunami scatters houses, and washes them clean, and sweeps them into a mindless numbing tide, then laps them up on a new and brighter shore. Once you decide what you want to be after this, you will make it reality.

That said, it's up to me to give you blueprints.

You're tuckered out, finally, and hiccupping plaintively when I speak my first words in almost five hours. "Come on." I get up, pulling you with me, and assist you to the door, into the hangar, and finally outside.

The sun is rising, bleeding pink and orange and tropicals into the clouds, which soak them up like guaze. I rest my hands on your shoulders, standing behind you so you can lean on something, and listen to your hiccups spread further apart. You're watching the sun's glory emptily, but slowly, by fractions, its light starts to thaw you. You regard the new day, but I regard you, trying to assess your thoughts.

You inhale with a shudder and murmur hoarsely, "Have you got any water?"

I'm slow on the uptake because your voice sounds awful. It matches your swollen face and red eyes. "Yeah, inside. You ready?"

"Not just yet," you whisper.

I understand.

* * *

After sitting you down at the makeshift bar made of cargo containers, I make us shit on a shingle, army style, and present it on a paper plate with a bourbon glass of water. You attack the food like a wolf, and it gladdens me to see your appetite coming back.

"Antibiotic," I inform you, tapping out the pill. "Pain meds," I continue, rattling out three Motrin. "And multivitamin." I take the same array every morning, sans the anitbiotic, and my body thanks me for it. You swallow the bunch with the water, your throat contracting. You exhale after downing it all, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and say, "Thank you."

It feels wrong to take your thanks, but I do anyway so that I don't upset you. "I'll be right back."

In the hangar, lined up against one wall, there are several lockers with the guys' names on them. I spin the combo on mine, and sure enough, Christmas has put my guns in there, bolts open and clip slots bare to show they aren't loaded. I grab them, take my cleaning kit from the shelf, and head back inside.

You've moved: you're standing in front of my meager bookshelf contemplatively. As I put down the guns, you tip Sun Tzu out of line. "I have always wanted to read _The Art of War,_" you say, measuring your excitement. "Could never find it in Nepal, though."

I "Hmph" in reply, and start to break down the weapons. "So you can read English, too?"

You smile wryly, your teeth white against your espresso-and-milk skin. "It has been a long time."

The smile, however mixed the emotion behind it, lightens the load on my shoulders somehow.

"What are you doing?" you ask, picking your way over to me, seated at my gun bench.

I make myself stay in place, letting you test the bounds of your stitches and aches, and pull a second stool from under the table. "Cleaing 'em." The question you asked seems to be one of your favorite English phrases: in the hut in Nepal, in your silent querying looks, and now here.

You take the invitation to balance yourself on the stool with minimal wincing, and wrap your slim fingers around the spine of the book. I see a glimmer of interest that wasn't there before, and I smile. You frown at my expression. "What?"

"Nothin'," I dismiss. I take out a cleaning rod, thread a cloth through the eye, and jam it in the muzzle of my M16, scrubbing out the insides of the barrel. Too late, I worry the phallic gesture will trigger a relapse, but you don't seem to draw the same ideas as me. Maybe there's a hint of innocence still left inside you.

Dust motes drift through the air, borne on the breeze from several stand fans and the bars of sunlight shining through the windows I cut and paned myself. I work the cloth until it comes out clean, and switch to a short, thin, wire bristle brush to clear the bullet chamber and magazine slot. You watch carefully, as though memorizing every motion. You even angle your head to watch the single drop of oil from the needle on a tiny plastic bottle hit the bolt mechanism.

I don't mind answering your questions. You ask about the number of rounds the gun fires, and I explain the concept of auto and semi-auto fire. You ask why parts of it are plastic and other metal, and I tell you it makes the gun lighter. You continue to be curious as I strip and clean the pistols.

"Why so interested?" I ask, not unkindly.

You give me a 'duh' look that is apparently universal. "Because I want to know what you know."

What, you mean how to kill? How to take a life in stride and sleep like a baby at night, over and over and over again? How to think about head shots, and kill zones, and ambushes and traps and the disgustingly creative ways to get information out of somebody? "You want to know, huh?"

I must've sounded darker than I meant to, because you quieten down. I sigh. I didn't mean to shut you down. I leave the guns out to dry, hop off the stool, and tell you I'm going to take a shower. Before I do, Doc Gary's words about suicidal tendencies echo through my mind. Disbelief and a little anger rise in me. Oh, no. Uh-uh. I refuse to believe that you would do something that stupid. You want to live, right? I can take a lot of things, but suicide watch ain't one of them.

You're carefully sliding off your stool, grimacing, when I turn back around and take you firmly by the chin with my thumb and finger. You stiffen, and your eyes get big with fear and sharp with caution. "Am I going to have to lock these up?" I ask you deliberately, motioning towards the guns.

Your eyes roll over to the weapons, then back to me. "No," you say, as deliberately as me. Maybe with hint more pissed off.

I probe your eyes for anything resembling guile and find none. I drop my hand. "Good." And feeling slightly bad for scaring you, even so little, I stride down the hall to the shower, grabbing a green wool blanket from storage.

The hot water is just this side of scalding, and it feels a-fucking-mazing. Usually, if I'm not ready to collapse, I shower down after mission. Didn't happen yesterday, of course, but it was worth the wait. Call it therapy, if you will. Something about getting off all the grime makes your soul a little less heavy.

Speaking of heavy...I prop my arm on the shower wall and rest my head against it, letting the water flow down my back. I feel bad for getting stern with you, but something inside me couldn't stand the thought of you blowing your own brains out. Honestly, in most any cases, if someone wants to die by their own hand, that's their business and their prerogative, with the exception being the guys. Maybe that's because I don't care about anyone else, not really.

You're the first person outside of my brothers in arms family that I give a rip shit about. And ain't that a burden to give?

I marinate under the water until it starts to turn cold and step out, wrapping the makeshift towel around my waist. Normally, I would simply walk out naked and get my clothes from the storage room, but I see that going over like a fart in church, what with you being far too familiar with male anatomy.

It takes me a minute to find you in the open room, but when I do, my heart squeezes a little. You're passed out on the couch, one boot on the floor and the other dangling off the end, with Sun Tzu laying open and face down on your chest.

You must have registered the shower cutting off, and it rouses you. Your eyes open and _you _take _me _in this time, flitting from scar to face to tattoo and back again. I wonder if I should let you see my messed up body, the roadmap of my life marked permanently on my skin. Again, that wall of appropriateness looms. Should I walk away? The idiocy of the thought strikes me. What, I can see you completely naked and at your worst condition, not just once but multiple times, and you can't even get a good, long look at me with a towel? Doesn't seem fair. That would imply your body and dignity means less than mine, and I won't have that.

You smile thinly, and I realize I'm close to making you uncomfortable. I move on, select and don an army trainee shirt, basic pants, socks and boots. At home, unlaced boots are the closest I get to fuzzy slippers.

When I step out you're dozing again. I make a quick pot of coffee on the stove, having forgotten it earlier with breakfast. With the mug o' mud steaming in my hand, I stare at your prone form taking up my couch. Your hair is strewn wildly, and the book on your chest rises and falls in time with your breathing. The fans whir softly, just barely losing out to your snores. All quiet on the Western front. An odd peace falls over me and I sip the black coffee.

I marvel for a minute how easy it is to exist in the same space as you. My home, such as it is, is my inner sanctum and my refuge from the world. I can count on one hand the number of times anyone has stayed over an hour, and all of them were the guys. I don't abide by many luxuries in life, but privacy is one of them. Having someone here, constantly, should be a taxation. But it isn't. Aside from emergency trips to the free clinic, your presence is...soothing. Like a was cog missing in the wheel of my life, making it stutter, and you replaced it and made the action smooth.

The couch is short, so I tap your boot to wake you. You move it to make room, and I reach down to lift both of your feet onto my lap by the laces. After a pregnant pause, during which I infer you aren't opposed to the setup, I pick up the remote and turn on the TV, then the news.

Your eyes widen, and I remember you were raised in a jungle. "Was this in your stories?" I ask, trying a teasing tone.

You pick up on it and grin the prettiest grin. "No."

We watch the tube for a while, break for a lunch of peanut butter sandwhiches, and pick up a marathon of some sitcom. I answer your questions about the culture you're witnessing for the first time. I pass you a mug of coffee, tempered with sugar, which makes you smack like you don't recognize it. The rest of the day slips by.


	5. Chapter 5

Night comes like an assassin's bullet: out of nowhere. After a dinner of beef jerky, which you seem to adore with a worshipful fervence, and a repeat of Motrin, I set about separating the top bunk from the bottom. This older style of bed can turn into a set of twin beds, and that's what I wrestle them down to.

The top bunk has aged better than the one I plant my ass into every night, but I flip the bare mattress anyway and dig up some sheets.

"Where do you want to sleep, Meera?" I ask.

You look up dazedly from Sun Tzu, and your brow wrinkles with thought. You are silent, biting your lip.

"I can move some stuff around in the storage room."

Looking faintly embarassed, you shake your head.

Oh, so now you choose to play the other side of the 20 Questions game. Great. "Show me, then."

You get up stiffly, hobble over, and stand right next to my bed.

That's not even fair. "Why there?" I ask, because I simply don't get your reasoning.

You fish for the right word, and finally whisper, "Safe."

Ah, hell. Why do you trust me, a man you've known for all of 48 hours, enough to sleep next to me in the dark? In your position, I wouldn't do it. Right about now, I'm beating my forehead into steak against the wall of appropriateness, that line I try to pull little, naive you back from. But how do I say no to that face?

"Alright." Leaving about three feet of aisle between the beds, I show you how to put sheets on an American bed, explaining the concept of why you need to bounce a quarter off 'em or it just isn't right, and you are looking like you're ready to end the day by the time I'm done. So I go around angling all the fans and turning off stray lanterns, leaving you to get comfy.

You're sitting on the bed with the last lantern next to you on the floor, staring at your boots. "Why are you being so nice to me?" you whisper.

I sit down on my bed, at your back, and start to take off my boots. It takes me a minute to put my thoughts into words. "Because you deserve to be saved." I get the boots off, but you still haven't moved. "Is that so hard to believe?"

You snort derisively, but I don't blame you. It's tough for me to believe, too, sometimes. You bend over to take off your boots and something must pull, because you grunt sharply and follow it with a hiss.

Those stitches must be giving you a real fit. I can't imagine having my balls sewn together, but it must hurt. "I gotcha." I move around and carefully guide the loosly laced boots off your small feet, check your bandages. I feel your eyes boring into my head, and I look up. Your eyes are tearing, your chin trembling.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask, but I know it's not that.

You dissolve. I raise up on my knees and bring you close, and you hold onto me like the only liferaft in your sea of tears. Your sobs sound angry this time around, like you hate them. I try to think through why that is. Your rapists are dead: we shot every soldier in that village before coming to your hut. It's a kind of peace bought with blood, and I am familiar enough with it to know that it works fucking great. That isn't bothering you, I know it. You're away from the unforgiving jungle of Nepal, where your parents died so unfairly and you lived a life of hardship. You're away from its injustice and its anarchy and fighting, in a country of relative peace. You're not alone in your hurt: you're with someone who...cares. Or at least, tries to make that clear.

No, it's none of those things. But maybe it makes you angry that although you've been transplanted into a veritable fairytale, in a land of opportunity, you're in no position to let it make you happy. At least, not yet. And then you look into yourself and see how much further you have to go, and that makes you angrier.

Nothing like being surrounded by good things and being unable to let them in. Huh, there's some personal conotations to that, come to think of it.

It takes you about four hours to cry yourself out, and that's impressive, considering your nose is broken. It's rather sudden, in fact, that you unwrap your arms from around me and simply fall sideways onto the pillow, pulling your socked feet onto the bed.

I look at you with with a 'WTF' face. I hardly expect you to just turn it off.

"I'm done," you assure me, reading my incredulity. You sound absolutely exhuasted, like you've got nothing left: like you're hollow as a shell casing. You peg me with bleary and red eyes, full of sadness and the rising tide of sleep. "Thank you, Barney Ross."

How the hell do you manage manners in the face of such crushing pain? Again with the thank-you! I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing. Maybe choosing to let the pain out, on your own terms and time, is your way of managing it. Being master of your own emotions. Like turning an opponent's blow into enough anger that you can destroy them. It's a remarkably army way of thinking.

I pull the sheet up, and you carry it all the way to your nose. Reaching down, I dim the lantern down to a Bic lighter's flame and fall into my own bed. I want to stay awake and make sure you don't wake up and start crying again, but I can't. The last thing I remember is watching you find a way to not lay on your bruises, and the way the tension utterly fell out of you when you drifted off.

* * *

We keep a low profile for six more days, and nobody bothers us until Christmas calls my cell when I'm in the hangar, nursing my daily cigar.

"Still alive over there?" he asks when I pick up.

"Alive as I'll ever be," I reply. It's really good to hear a friend's voice. "What's happenin'?"

"Same as you, I imagine," he says, and I hear a _BOOM_ through the tiny speaker on the phone. There's the sound of a bolt sliding, and a shell ejecting. I must be on speakerphone at the private range on his ranch. "R&R, some target practice. You know, the waiting game."

I make an affirmative noise. I do know the waiting game. How long until our next mission? I usually have 48 hours' notice, or less. What if I have to leave you? Holy shit, eventually I _will _have to leave you, by yourself, for days, maybe weeks. Holy shit, again. I glance through the two doors to where you're carefully pouring hot coffee into your twice-sugared mug. The stuff has really grown on you.

"How's she doing?" Christmas asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Meera's making it," I say, checking the truth in the statement as I say it. It's less than I like, so I elaborate. "She cries at night, and functions during the day. I got her seen by a doctor the night we got home."

"And how are you doing?" the British accent responds. He sounds like he's equally focused on me and his gun scope. That's the sort of laser focus I hang my hat on. There's an entire brain's worth of thought process trained on helping me work through this problem.

I lean back against the corrougated wall and run my fingers through my short hair. "It's tough," I reveal. "After a mission, we put everything away and forget about it. This mission sits on my couch and cries my shirts soaked."

Christmas grunts sympathetically. "I feel your pain, mate." He commiserates in silence for a moment while he lines up his shot. Another _BOOM. _"You're one brave bastard, Barney."

"Or hopelessly stupid," I shoot back dryly. I sigh out some smoke, and let loose my biggest fear with it. "Have I bitten off more than I can handle, Lee?"

The bolt cycles as he thinks it over. "You've got it in you to see this through. And when you reach your limit, there's us. All of us."

The confidence I have in my team and their abilites is way more than I have in my lone self. That's why we're a team: more than the sum of our parts. "Thanks, man."

"Yup. Tell Meera I said hullo."

* * *

A tentative and general routine solidifys over the course of the second week.

During the daytime, you follow me around, and I keep you busy with small tasks. When I'm cleaning weapons, you're ready with the tube of oil for the mechanism. You really like handling the guns, and I decide that eventually I'll find a nice .38 to give you. You know, once I'm 100% positive you won't turn it on yourself.

When I'm maintaining the plane, I give you a paintbrush and you touchup Santa's smiling mug. That keeps you occupied for about five minutes before you've crawled into the internal workings next to me, and are handing me socket wrenches with a four-out-of-five accuracy. "Five-eighths, Meera, not five-sixths."

"Sorry."

During downtime, you finish Sun Tzu and pick up _Four Weapons That Changed The World._ "Barney," you get my attention. I look from the TV over at you, curled up on the end of the couch, legs tucked under you. It strikes me how much I love hearing my name in your accent. "Hm?'

"Do you have an AK-47?"

"Is a pig's ass pork?"

"What?"

"Nothing." I show the gun to you.

Your bruises all turn nasty shades of green, then yellow at the edges on your coffee-with-Bailey's skin. To a degree, it makes you look worse: like a messed up patchwork doll. I change your ankle bandages every evening, and give you a tube of scar cream for your face and wrists. A steady diet of Meals Ready To Eat gives your slim frame some definition, mostly ironing out the bones in your wrists and your ribs. Your metabolism must be high as a kite.

You still cry at night: gut-deep, chest-aching, throat scratching sobs. That's your time, and I can set my watch by it like Lassie passing the schoolhouse. Each time you crawl under the covers, I search for any improvement, any lightening of the load on your heart. Sometimes I think I glimpse it, like a cabin light in a blizzard, and others you fall asleep too fast.

I remind myself constantly not to overestimate your recovery. I mean, you were fucking gang raped and tortured. This is a marathon, not a sprint. A week-plus of good food and a shoulder to cry on will not fix what's broken inside you. But maybe two weeks, or three, or more will. It doesn't matter anyway: you're stuck with me until you're sick of me. I know that day will come, but it seems as far off as the end of the world. So I put it from my mind and concentrate on matching your pace: happy when you're happy, strong when you're sad.

When I'm working out, you're my spotter for the benchpress. It doesn't matter I haven't needed one in years, much less that I'm shit outta luck if I do happen to drop the load into your hands. Your brow is furrowed in concentration to match mine, as though your willpower is helping me bench my normal 340 pounds. When you stand on my toes when I'm doing sit ups, I happen to catch you smiling and ask why between huffs. You won't tell me, but you smile bigger.

Now, I (used to) live by myself. Some habits are hard to break. Like laundry, for instance. I wear the same clothes for a few days, in proportion to the amount of dirtiness the acquire. So one day early in the third week, I reach for a pair of BDUs on the shelf and come up empty. Civie clothes today, then. I pull on the Wounded Warriors shirt and some jeans with only a little dried paint on them.

"Guess what?" I ask as I walk into the room and start the coffee.

"What?" you ask, catching on to my cheerful tone.

"Laundry day."

I really need to get myself a washer and dryer for the hangar, but somehow, it never happens. I can definitely afford it: my pay is fucking obscene. But a part of me wants the excuse to go into town. It's rare I'm at the hangar long enough to exhuast the supply of clothes, so this will be an all-day trip to the dry cleaner's.

So I gunny sack all the dirty clothes. The wool blankets we've been using for towels smell mildewed, so they come, too. And because I'm a thorough bastard, I strip the beds and stuff the sheets into the pillow cases.

There's five bags total. You pick up one with a small grunt, and I heft the rest. They go into the bed of the truck, and we're on our way.

Neither of us have left the hangar since the free clinic trip, and once we hit the open road I realize how stir crazy I was. You're glued to the window, watching the countryside and mobile homes and crop fields pass.

"I've missed a whole world," you say incredulously.

Huh, you're first contraction. I must be rubbing off on you. Next thing I know, you'll be talking Brooklyn and smoking cigars. I click on the radio and you jump in surprise. You've heard bits of music on TV, but never savored the wonder that is Guns 'n' Roses.

"Wow," you breathe as Slash string-skips into Sweet Child 'O Mine.

I can't help but smile as your fingers start to tap.


	6. Chapter 6

We ease into town and stop-and-go with the traffic. Every stop light crowd is like a Jurassic Park exhibit to you. The sheer number and variety of people seems to overwhelm you, and your mouth unconsciously falls open. I can imagine the shock of learning there are so many colors of skin, so many styles of clothes and hair and cars.

When I swing into a parallel park next to the squat brick building that is Lou's Laundromat and Dry Cleaning, I see apprehension fall on you. It's one thing to see it all from a moving vehicle: it's another thing to step into the wild stream.

"It's okay," I find myself saying. "Gotchyer back."

You glance at me with some worry, but bite your lip and decide to trust me anyway. You unbuckle and open the truck door.

We haul the bags into the laundromat. "Hey, Lou," I greet the old man behind the counter.

"How's it hanging, Barney?" he responds, looking up from the bonsai that lives next to his register.

"I heard about Samantha. Tough breaks, man."

"Eh," Lou shakes his shiny bald head. "She was a good bitch, and she deserves to rest in peace."

"When's the next one come in?"

"In two days. Until then, I'm lost." He tilts his head, and gets this really surprised look on his face. "Who's this?" he asks.

I want to indignantly tell him not to be so shocked. What, I can't have a woman living...? I mean, a woman helping me with...? Dammit. "Meera," I reply. "This is Lou. Lou, Meera."

"A pleasure," says Lou warmly. I eye him carefully as he sticks out a hand over the counter. He must have picked up on how shy you are, half-hiding behind me.

You stare at his hand with a look that is partway panicy, but force youself forward to take it all the same. Just like you've seen on TV. He pumps it once, and you tug away, edging back to my side. "A pleasure," you repeat the sentiment, but with an accent thickened by your discomfort.

Lou smiles, and I can tell he's being nice. He'd better watch it. When he turns to pick up the phone, which is ringing, the puckered tip of the burn scar on his back slips past his collar. Your eyes widen; you can tell it extends way past there. I happen to know it almost blankets his back, from ass to neck. Claymores are a bitch that way.

"Uh-huh," Lou says congenially to the caller, while waving us on towards the row of washers and dryers. "Yeah, what's the type of fabric...?"

I choose the washer farthest from the door and pop it open. "Stick in the first bag, I'll be right back." There's a machine that I feed a few dollars into, and it turns them into change. I walk back, and sure enough, you've stuck the entire bag of clothes in. Without removing the bag. "Like this, Meera."

"Ah," you say, like it should've been obvious to someone who's never used a washing machine before. "Who is Samantha?"

"Who?'

"Lou's, erm, bitch." You wince at the word, like it's got bad memories attached. "Was she his wife?"

I stare at you to see if you're kidding, then start to chuckle. "No. Samantha was his seeing-eye dog."

"Oh." You look over your shoulder at the Lou, who is still on the phone. "Lou is...blind?"

"Hides it well, huh?" I thumb in two quarters, punch the slide in, and chuck the detergent powder into the machine. You lean against the washer to watch me twist the dial, and water starts to fill it.

"But how does he run this store? How does he live?" You ask in disbelief.

"He's got it figured out. He works around his disabilities." As I close the lid, I realize we're not just talking about Lou.

You're fixated on the dusty, fake palm in the corner. "He works around it," you murmur to yourself, as though it's rolling around in your head.

I let you chew on it while I grab two newspapers from the front stand. You perch on the edge of the rumbling machine, and I hand you one of the papers. I try to lose myself in the doings of the mayor's zoo tour, but it's hard when you keep stealing my attention. You look so...normal. Well, my version of normal. Your face and torso are obscured by the paper, and the big boots into which the ends of your baggy BDUs tuck are crossed at the ankle and kicking absently.

Are you happy? We're three weeks into this, and it feels like a holding pattern rather than a trip. I want to ask so badly, but I'm afraid of the answer. Which is weird, because I have no fear. Are you pretending in these days we spend together, or are you genuinely enjoying my company? I'm not...the best person in the world. Socially speaking, I mean. I'm no silver-tongued Sinatra. Plus I kill people for a living. Are you faking acceptance of that? Is it all acting when you roll under the plane with me, or watch me clean guns, or ask questions about the service and the job? Am I just a protector and nurse and shoulder for you to cry on, or am I your friend? Barney to base, I need a status update here...

"Meera." Your name leaves my mouth without my bidding.

You fold down the paper quizzically. "Yes, Barney?"

I fumble the pass. Coward. "Let's pick up some things across the street at the drug store."

You cock your head like you know I meant to say something else, but acquiesce anyway. You're learning to read me, and that can be either good or bad.

"Hey, Lou, can you watch our shit?"

"Nice, Barney, real smooth," he cracks back good naturedly. "How about you 'watch' this?" And he shoots me the bird.

I laugh. You don't, though, and it comes to my attention that you are fine with the occassional smile, but have never laughed in my presence. That stabs. Three weeks, and not a giggle. You're bound up inside pretty tight if you can't even accidentally giggle.

The smell in the store is clinical and bleachy, like clean bathrooms. You are struck dumb and momentarily motionless by the amount of goods in the place. When I realize you're not by my side, I turn around and chuckle at your face. "You should see a Walmart."

You wander a couple of aisles over, leaving me reading a gun mag. I let you go, let you roam free, because I refuse to make the mistake of thinking you're my exclusive property. If you are feeling brave enough to lose sight of me, that's a good step. You're not a fucking Paris Hilton dog, kept in a purse under my arm all day, like shown on the cover of the gossip rags on the rack in front of me. You're a person, a soul: emotions and wants and needs and maybe, if I can get you through the hell that rules your nights, dreams.

I shake my head and flip the page. Damn, I'm getting all philosophical. That won't do at all.

It takes you probably an hour to get your fill of the store. I page through anything that interests me and wait. When you reappear at my elbow like a shadow, I actually stifle an instinctive move to elbow your solar plexus.

"Can I get this?" you ask, oblivious. In your hand is a hairbrush.

A hairbrush. Out of every foreign and fantastic thing in this store, that's what you choose. "Sure."

At the register, I slap down the magazine, which has an interesting article on the evolution of the Browning Automatic Rifle, and the hairbrush. With some forethought, I add two protein bars and two candy bars to the pile from the impulse buy rack. You watch the exchange of money carefully.

Back in Lou's, we switch the loads and activate the dryer with two more quarters. You keep reading the newspaper, and I finish the gun mag as the dryer buzzes. The sudden sound nearly causes you to tip off the machine, but you catch yourself and put a hand over your heart as though keeping it intact.

I chuckle, and you imitate Lou's flipping of the bird, which makes me laugh harder. "Do you even know what that means?"

"Yes," you reply tartly, eyes flashing. "It means, up yours, Barney Ross."

I can't get over that one, and grin the whole time we fold clothes. You're trying to look indignant and not proud that you caught me off guard, but it comes out as looking smug. You must have had obscene gestures in Nepal, too.

The day passes amicably. The candy bar is your first experience with chocolate, and I catch you licking the wrapper. People come in with their laundry: a college-age girl, a punk rock man, a black grandma with grandkids in tow. They're a small hurricane, the kids, and although kids make me nervous, seeing you smirk at their antics is worth it.

"Gigi, why is his face like that?" One of the boy kids asks loudly.

"And why is her nose like that?" asks the youngest, a girl, indicating your taped nose.

Your cheeks darken a little, and you meet the grandma's eyes. She studies you for a moment before answering her son with wise confidence. "Because she's a fighter, baby." After an apologetic look she herds them out, her plastic basket on her hip.

Damn, I'd let the kid insult me all day if I can have the grandma hop on the recovery train with you. You stare after her with an open mouth, then swallow as the words sink in. "A fighter?" you mutter, touching your nose.

"Smart lady," I say. A complete stranger just told you what I've been trying to all along.

You flicker a smile my way that makes my heart swell.

* * *

As we fold the last load, you keep pausing to scratch at your neck, just under your ear.

"Barney," you say hesitantly. The thickness of your voice jerks me to attention. "Something is wrong. My face feels..."

Then I notice the pink blotches working their way up you neck. "What the hell?" I say in surprise. I sweep your hair aside to get a better look at the rash. "Looks like an allergic -" I stop, and fish the candy bar wrapper out of my pocket. No peanuts listed, but you've eaten peanut butter before. I'm at a loss, and you're starting to look very uncomfortable. "Uh, we gotta go. Now."

I bundle you into the truck because it's faster than an ambulance, berating myself angrily. I must have an undiagnosed mental problem. It's getting harder for you to breathe. You're wheezing in the seat next to me, rubbing your throat as it starts to swell.

"I'm hurrying," I say frustratedly, and lay on the horn with a string of profantities that make you blush.

Thank God the free clinic is only a mile away. I pound the back door, and this time, when the nurse answers, she doesn't waste my time. In seconds, you're getting a nice dose of Epinephrin in the arm while another one reads the candybar label I give to her. For a few minutes, there's three nurses standing by with a tracheotomy kit, making excuses for Gary's absence that I don't care to hear. Your grip on my hand is deathly tight. We wait, our breath baited even as you struggle to pull oxygen from the mask over your face.

By the time Gary moesies into the room your airways are opening back up. There's only one nurse left, the same one that helped you dress that first night. Her nametag reads Wanda. You're still laying down, looking pale but alive, shaking slightly from the drug and the fear. "Sorry for the wait," Gary says, gently touching your neck with a doctor's probing fingers. "Good thing Ross got you here so quick, or this might have been much worse."

I'm pissed at him for not getting to you sooner. Or maybe jealous he gets to touch you. "Backed up today?" I ask harshly.

"As a matter of fact, yes," he replies without missing a beat. Standing back and pulling his prescription pad out, he talks and writes at the same time. "You are badly allergic to cashews, Miss Meera. I suggest you steer clear if you want to breathe easy."

I can't take his shit today, so I stand up abruptly. This whole thing has put me in a foul-ass mood. "I need a smoke. You good, Meera?"

You look at little taken aback by my tone, but you nod anyway.

I step outside and bring the skull lighter to bear on a cigar. I have time to appreciate one puff of a thousand soothing scratches before Gary's there beside me.

"What is it?" I ask coldly.

"She's negative," he replies nonchalantly, lighting up with his own Bic and leaking smoke from his nose.

"For what?"

"Everything. No STDs. We got the results back this morning."

My frown deepens, and this time, the smoke whistles from between my teeth with the force of expulsion.

Gary sighs and taps ash off. "It's not your fault, Ross. Shit happens."

"Thanks for the tip," I snark.

Gary's quiet for a minute, giving me some verbal space, before continuing in that calm doctor's voice again, "It's a lot to adjust to, being responsible for another person."

I laugh darkly in response, stabbing the cigar back into my mouth and folding my arms.

"You're doing your best. Physically, she's healing. How's she _really _doing?"

I suddenly feel ten, no, twenty years older. My mind goes to the night before, when you choked out that you are afraid you'll carry that jungle with you forever. It makes me want to burn it down, every leaf, with a flamethrower. Ash falls from the tip of my cigar. "Sometimes I think she's getting there," I say to the cloud of our mixed smoke. "Other times it's bad enough to make me doubt if she ever will."

Gary nods, but he knows that he's given me all the advice I'll hear. The air seems clearer, somehow, despite our smog rising to the sky. I realize that that doubt has been weighing on me for days, and voicing it opens the cage for it to fly off. Good riddance.

"She can take the nose cast off in two more weeks," says Gary in that clinical way. "The bruises are fading, but she'll still feel them for another month. And her stitches are done dissolving."

Then I feel like shit all over again, because I haven't even noticed they are gone from your head and wrists. Gary hands me the prescription he'd been writing, and I see it's for an EpiPen. "They make us write scripts for the damn things now," he mutters, stomping out his smoke. "Call me if anything changes."

Heavy in the boots and heavier in the heart, I trudge back to your exam room to see you listening to nurse Wanda prattle on about how much she likes the wave in your hair. "It really frames your face," she says enthusiastically.

You blush behind the clear mask. "I like the color of yours. It is pretty."

Well, whaddaya know, I think as the nurse smiles. You can return a compliment and it sound natural. Those hours of TV must be paying off.

"If you think you're breathing better now, you can take off the mask, sweetie." She sticks a stethescope against your ribs, urging you to breathe deep.

I lean against the doorframe and watch you interact with her. I swear, you seem to like her more than Gary.

You grin at something she says, and the clouds in my chest part a little.

The cigar helped. The cigar and talking to Gary.

But mostly the cigar.

* * *

You cry harder tonight, shaken by the day's event that had started to good, and ended so bad. Shit, I think this is the worst I've seen you. I've assumed the position honed by nearly four weeks of practice, with my chin resting on your head as you snot another shirt into submission. I realize you're speaking Nepali through your sobs. That's new.

I can barely make out what you're saying because you're almost hysterical. When I finally figure it out, for the first time, I want to cry with you. The tears are tied up somewhere in my chest because of the acid eating away at my insides as I digest your broken words. For the first time in so many nights of crying, you let out the words.

You tell me between bed-shaking sobs how many men raped you. You aren't entirely sure, because you closed your eyes after the first half dozen and maybe some were repeat customers. Bile rises in my throat at the number. You spare no detail, not one sickening bit. It makes me loathe my own dick. It makes me hate being a man, in a very visceral way. Every ounce of pain and shame and disgust, you pour it out in rivers of words and tears. It's all I can do not to let the tightness in my body transmit to my arms around you.

I'm so choked with rage and sorrow and the overwhelming urge to blow the living shit out of something, anything, that I don't realize I'm stroking your hair. I have to take a huge damn emotional step back, or I'm going to combust. Who will hold you then? I go into survival mode, a zone where I'm there, but hovering just under the ceiling of my own internal capacity to cope. I'm literally sweating with the force of your feelings.

This goes on for hours. You're raising the bar with every fresh cry, getting closer and closer to something I'm absolutely terrified of. You are every soul burning in hell, every Napalm-covered rebel blazing to death, every mother and wife laid over their soldier's coffin, then enitre suffering and sin-stricken world begging and screaming. It culminates in an ungodly, unearthly, ear-piercing _shriek _that literally shakes your small frame and leaves my ears ringing.

And then you stop.

I feel like I've taken a grenade and don't know I'm dead yet. Like I'm waiting for my fried nerve endings to transmit the message: 'Hey, asshole, you're in two different pieces.' You're still in my arms, faceplanted in my sternum and utterly still, and that scares me. "Meera," I murmur, jostling you slightly. "Meera?"

There's a gust of breath from your mouth that feels like a cold holy wind, blowing through my ribcage, knocking cinders and ash off my smoldering heart. You slowly raise your head and meet my eyes. Something's different.

"Barney." Your voice is cracked, completely wrecked. "I don't want to cry anymore."

I don't know what to say, because this has to be a hallucination.

Then I realize that now _you're _embracing _me. _I numbly recognize the change. There's wetness on my cheeks.

You did it. You finally shattered.

Now you can start to put yourself back together.


	7. Chapter 7

When I wake up, we're laying in the same bed: clothes, boots, everything. For the life of me, I can't remember how or when we got there.

Your lashes flutter and open. I search those pretty chocolate eyes for the burden that I'm so used to seeing, and find only the barest traces of it, like a dust imprint left by something on a shelf.

"Hey," you croak. Even your voice sounds lighter.

"Hey," I reply.

You crack a small but real, true, honest-to-God smile. It disrupts the salt tracks left on your cheeks. Your're laying on half my chest, and I'm incredibly warm from the living blanket. Your breasts are a firm comfort where they're nestled against me, but I'm too drowsy to care. So this is what it's like to wake up next to a woman. In my experience they never stay long enough to...I immediately start to lose heat when you raise up, get off the bed, and walk towards the bathroom.

Like nothing, yet somehow everything, has happened.

This can't be real, that's my manatra the entire morning. I stir together Top Ramen numbly, as it's past noon. This can't be real. You remind me that we left all the laundry, every stitch of it except what we're wearing, back at Lou's due to our hasty retreat. The mattress we laid on all night was bare. This can't be real.

I know the signs of shellshock, and I have every one of them. Somewhere between washing down breakfast/lunch with yesterday's stale coffee and cranking the truck to life, I figure out why. I never really believed you'd reach your lowest point, the precursor to bouncing off rock bottom, because I'd lost sight of the goal. I knew you needed to break. That much was clear. But I never knew if you were going to be capable of pulling the trigger: to tip yourself into that howling abyss and shatter against the bottom like glass. And because I couldn't make that choice for you, I'd started to douubt.

I glance at you out of the corner of my eye, watching the countryside flow by the window. You don't look like fractured glass.

"I know what you're thinking," you say suddenly. "No, I'm not fine. I doubt I ever will be." Despite that weighty statement, when our eyes meet, the levity in them rattles me again. "But I'm better. I want to _keep_ getting better." With that, you peel the cast off your nose and throw it out the window, leaving only a thin line of a bruise to hint it was ever there.

* * *

Lou kept our stuff behind the counter, bless him, including the drugstore hairbrush. We retrieve it all and say hello to his new service dog Misty, who is a day early. You wave at the black grandma with the hellacious kids, back for round two of laundry. She recognizes me first because I'm an ugly son of a gun, then her eyes widen when she recognizes you. Maybe she sees what I'm seeing and writes it off as the absence of the nose cast.

I decide today's the day you discover Walmart. Judging by your face, it might as well be Candyland that we walk into. We drop off your prescription at the pharmacy hub. The wait is three hours, but we've got time to kill.

We walk, literally, every aisle. Homegoods with their cheap pillows and curtains, crafts with yarn and girly crap, office supplies, the works. I pace outside the women's underwear section, though. You're on your own. I've walked into bomb-wired houses, ambushes, enemy firestorms, and several versions of hell itself, but I will not. Go. There.

It starts to hit me. This is real. I'm not following around some ghost of Meera: you're starting to get tangible. You aren't hazing at the slightest breeze like the smoke from my cigars. It's like you've been holding the two sparking wires apart, but now, your body and soul have completed the circut for the first time in a long time. I find myself back at square one: just like from the beginning of our relationship in that dim hut, I don't know what I'm doing, but I'll figure it out as I go.

I shake myself out of my daze, and find myself in the sporting goods section. You have on a pair of shades with mirrored lenses. They look a hell of a lot like my pair of aviators.

"Nice," I say. I find that I mean it in many ways.

People look at us curiously, and it strikes me that we make an odd sort of couple. Me: tall, white, muscled, scarred, mean, tatted up. You: short, mix-skinned, baggy clothes, combat boots a size too big, fading bruises, huge brown eyes and sharp cheeks. If we did comedy, it would be the ideal setup. You would rag on the ugly American, and I would tease and get shot down by the back-jungle, oblivious Nepali. I would run circles around you with obscure pop culture references and expressions, and you would punch me in the arm with a string of rapid-fire native tongue.

I think I've figured out my retirement plan.

"Carry the Pen with you everywhere," cautions the pharmacy associate when we return, peering at you over his thick glasses and countertop.

"Don't worry," you tell him, the paper bag crinkling in your hands. "I am not going through _that _again."

* * *

We get home when the moon is rising and eat an MRE apiece. You eventually get annoyed by the number of times you catch me staring at you, looking for cracks in your facade, and shut me off with a look. Huh, so that's what that feels like.

"You don't have to treat me like an armed nuke," you say. It's the first time I've heard you use slang. Hell, it's a whole day of firsts for you.

"Sorry," I reply. It might only be my third word today. "It's just...this feels like a dream." Gay as that sounds, I'm in no position to mince words.

You reach out and pinch my arm hard.

"What was that for?"

"There, see? Not dreaming."

I laugh, and it feels amazing, like crawling out of a foxhole at the 'all clear.'

"I'm not 100 percent, yet," you confide warningly, gathering your cup and our utensils and putting them in the sink. "But I feel like the worst has passed. Like I'm not tied up anymore."

I nod. I know exactly what you mean. Even if it feels undeniably odd to hear you string so many words together, much less about what you're feeling, I am secretly grateful for yet another sign that you've turned a corner. "So, where do you want to go from here?'" I sound like a damn shrink, but I may as well take advantage of the new, talkative Meera.

You pick up my empty beer bottle and consider it. "I don't know." You rinse the bottle out and shelve it with the others, to be used for Malatov cocktails or shooting practice. The not knowing seems to deflate you a bit.

"One day at a time, lady," I say comfortingly. "That's how we take it."

When you help me put away the laundry, you bury your face in every piece when you think I'm not looking, intoxicated by the scent of chemical cleanliness.

We take turns at the shower, first me, then you. Although it's a ritual now that you see me walk by in a towel, I get a strange flip in my stomach when your eyes skim me over the top of _U.S. Army Survival Manual FM __21-76_. Now that you're fleshing out again, bit by tiny bit, are you really seeing me for the first time?

I'm flipping channels when I hear the water cut off, and the sound of cardboard tearing off the back of the hairbrush. Silence.

I don't think much of it as I turn down the place for the night, but as I turn around from angling the last fan, you're standing behind me.

"Shit," I let slip before I can stop myself. I give you a longsuffering look while my heart stutters back into gear. "Make a noise or something, Meera. People get hurt that way."

You look properly chagrinned. "Sorry." You turn around, and the hairbrush is tangled up in your hair like a rat's nest. "It's stuck, and it won't come out," you say with frustration.

I have to laugh at that.

You turn back around and scowl, hiding your pleasure at my reaction. "Have you got cutters?"

"You mean scissors? Yeah, somewhere."

We end up standing on the tarmac in front of the hangar, me with a pair of scissors and not believing what I'm hearing.

"Take off this much," you insist, your fingers drawing a line at the base of your neck. It's blustery with an impending storm, and you fold your arms against the gusts of warm, wet wind.

I hesitate. Isn't long hair, I don't know, sacred to women?

"Please?" you implore.

I sigh. "Okay."

I remove the chunk with the entangled hairbrush first, and pass it over your shoulder for you to start picking at. In the cold light of the halogens on poles, I take the scissors to the rest of your dark waves, still wet from the shower, and try not to get distracted by the smell of you. We use the same army-issued soap and shampoo, but somehow it comes out to smell better on you.

I take off six inches of the eighteen hanging down your back, just in case you change your mind. When you show no signs of turning back, I go to work on the rest. The scissors aren't the ideal tool for the job, but they manage. The end product is certainly not salon quality: the edges uneven amonst locks but basically a straight line. "Done."

You run your fingers through it wonderingly. We both look down at the pile of hair at my feet. "That's a lot," you comment. "My head feels less heavy." When you meet my eyes, I can see something else that's less heavy, too. "Thank you, Barney."

The wind catches the strands of hair and sweeps them off like tumbleweeds, down the tarmac and out of sight.

You get your own boots off after a little finagling, and lay down with a "Goodnight" I can hardly believe came from your lips. Further astonishing, for the first time, just shy of four weeks after we met, you don't cry yourself to sleep.

* * *

Hale Ceasar calls my cell late in the evening the next day. "Yo, man, whassup?"

I know Ceasar: he's black and proud, but not a 'yo, whassup' type of dude. His next words confirm what I'm thinking. "It'sss half price draft tonight!" Yep, drunk. "That's real nice Ceasar," I say dryly, waving you back to your book and stepping outside.

"You bet it'sss nicccce. The girlsss here, man. Whooo-we! Tell 'im, Toll."

There's a scraping over the line, and Toll Road sounds extremely amused. It's the same tone he takes after giving a wall and new window. "You missed him singing 'Stairway to Heaven' earlier."

I snicker. "I would've killed to see that."

"Coming from you, Barney, that's like saying you'd breathe to see that. Hang on, Yin Yang wants to talk to ya."

I smile, and somehow feel homesick despite leaning against my own front door. I can picture them all at the bar, laughing and drinking and bullshitting each other. I miss my friends, and it hasn't hit me until now.

"Hey, Barney," clips the Asian, his words as crisp as his punches and kicks. "It's not the same bar without you, man."

"I know, I know. I've been - "

"And I take full credit for getting Ceasar up on that stage - "

"Give me da phone!" I hear Gunnar yell. Yin Yang protests the tall sniper's rudeness, but Gunnar overrides him. "When're you gonna come out of the foxhole, Barney? I need a wingman!"

I shake my head, because he's three sheets, too, and reply, "Soon, I hope. I'm making progress."

"HE SAYS HE'S MAKING PROGRESS!" Gunnar yells stupidly. I hear the approving uproar from my team and laugh. Christmas must have updated them from our conversation a couple of weeks ago, and hypothesized the rest amongst themselves. Really, though, I wonder what they think of me, holed up with a damaged Nepali girl. They don't even know you speak English, or are getting better, or that we've bonded.

I've got some 'splaining to do, once I see them all again.

"Sit down, you moron. Give me that damn - Barney, you there?" It's Christmas, sounding only a little tipped. "Hang on, lemme get some space between me and the jackasses." The sounds from the jukebox and nightcrowd of regulars fade somewhat, and I hear the recognizable creak of the men's room door. "There. Christ, Barney, you'd think they miss you or something."

"I know. There's only so much I can do. We're at a delicate stage."

"Delicate like your knickers? Come on, Barney, surely you can leave her alone for a few hours. It's not like she could get into any trouble."

I think about the sheer number of incindiary devices, exposed wires, loaded guns, and sharp things I have laying around, and my eye twitches involuntarily. Hell, there's a live grenade for a paperweight on my electronics bench. "That's not it. I just don't want to..."

"Hurt her feelings," finishes Christmas for me. "I get that and all. Really, man, I do. But you've gotta cut the apron strings at some point. Or at least one of them! Give the girl a chance to find her own stride."

Even half drunk, Christmas is a wiser soul than me.

"A man needs his buds."

"I don't deny it."

"That said," continues the knife aficianado. "I think it's time the party came to you." And then he either drops the phone into a toilet, or hangs up.

I stare at the dead line in my hand and pray that he doesn't mean the party I just heard.

* * *

It's the middle of the morning late in the fourth week when Christmas drops by unannounced. While I'm fiddling with the tuning crystal for a set of walkies, I hear a rumble of a motorcycle echoing in the hangar. I know that bike: it's rider is trouble. I leap from the electronics bench to my feet when I hear his bike rumble into the hangar and make a dash for it. You're in the bathroom, so I waylay him outside the front door.

"What do you think you're doing?" I ask him gruffly, cracking the door behind me.

"Visiting," he replies innocently, removing his helmet. "And you?"

I grind my teeth in response. "Now's not the best time."

Dammit. Christmas cocks his head and sees through me. "What happened?"

"She had a breakthrough, emphasis on 'break' - "

"That's good, right?"

" - and now she's on the upswing."

"Definitely good."

"So I say again: this is not the best time."

"You're scared," he observes, though not accusatorily. "Why?"

I pace two steps off, unnaturally edgy, and whirl to stalk back. "It's a soft deal right now. You might rock the boat."

Christmas scoffs. "You are kidding, right? Lou called me up and told me you were at the dry cleaner's with a strange woman. I know you're taking her around people. So why not me?" He gives me a winning smile, to which I respond with a balefully dubious scowl.

"Last time she saw you," I growl. "She was barely alive. It might bring back some bad memories."

"Barney?" you call from inside. "Maaar-cooo!" Your boots thump closer.

I fling a death glare at Christmas because I have no choice now and mutter, "You're a dead man if you mess this up."

He grins with cheeky victory. Asshole.

You poke your head out the door, short hair swinging, and notice our guest. The surprise lingers on your face a split second longer than I like. "Oh! Hello," you say, recovering somewhat. I notice your fingers tighten on the jamb. "I think we've met before." You manage to look gracefully embarassed, as though he accidently saw you in a towel and not post-rape and covered in blood.

"Yeah, in passing," says Christmas, rubbing the back of his head. He thinks better of extending a hand. "Lee Christmas."

"Meera," you reply in something that can only be described as politely distant. You open the door wider. "Need another minute, Barney?"

I give Christmas my best Look, the one known to freeze animals in place, and reply, "Nah. I'm good."


	8. Chapter 8

Note to self: no more sitcoms involving domestic life for you.

"Coffee, Christmas?" you ask, taking down some mugs from their nails.

"Uh, sure," replies the Englishman, nervously glancing at me. I'm barely suppressing a glower in his direction.

"Sugar, cream?"

"Cream, thanks." He leans against the cargo box -countertop while I pull up my barstool. I don't offer him a seat because traitors don't get seats.

You are now officially on a strict diet of cartoons and news. There's no way you learned that polite shit from me. I sigh. The entire damn world conspires against me, so I might as well roll with it. I slide the drugstore gun magaizine across the counter. "Read this one yet?"

"No, not yet. Borrow?"

"Sure. But I charge late fees."

Yesterday in the laundromat, I realized that you have started getting good at reading me. At the time, I wasn't enthused by the prospect. But now, when you slide me a mug that you somehow surreptitiously filled with dark stout and not coffee, giving me a secret hint of a smile, I change my mind rather suddenly. My bad mood evaporates.

You give Christmas his mug, and your fingers accidentally brush his. If he notices your subtle flinch, he pretends not to.

So seeing him again is bringing up bad memories, after all. I sip the disguised stout and wait until your eyes flicker to mine. They're dark with storm clouds on the horizon, and it worries me. Dissecting why, I sort out that it must be _men_ that make you uncomfortable. Well, except me, I'm proud to claim. Gary the doctor is professional, but you are way more open when he's gone and nurse Wanda is there instead. You had to make yourself shake hands with Lou, and immediately retreated like he was diseased. And now, you won't look my best friend in the eye, even though he weaves his way into all the best war stories I have told you. I know that, eventually, you're going to have to get used to being around my brothers in arms. I can't hide in here with you forever: you're going to have to buck up and face the music. So how do I get you to be brave, and test your new mettle?

"Your hog's gathering dust, I notice," Christmas says conversationally.

"Yeah, it's been a few weeks. I've been giving the truck some miles." I nod your way while your back is turned, and he catches on, or so I think.

Then he opens his fat Eurotrash mouth. "Say, it's a glorious day. Why not go for a ride with me?"

Drink the stout. Drink the stout and don't hate the British.

"You and Meera and me, eating up the road," Christmas continues. "Come on, it'll be a blast."

You prop a hip against the sink, shrug, and won't meet my gaze.

What, now it's my call? "I don't know," I grumble into the mug.

Your brow wrinkles as you sniff, looking past me. "What's that smell?"

"Smells like someone left on a soldering iron," comments my friend, also frowning around the room.

I did. In fact, there's a small fire started on my work bench. I swear, leap across the room, and douse it with my mug and minimal theatrics. Waste of good beer. Christmas chuckles and I flip him off. You come over with a rag and murmur to me, so he can't hear, "If you want to go on a ride, you should go." That sounds, to my Meera-trained ear, like you're wanting Christmas out of here. Granted, you don't know him, but that's hardly an excuse. Given a little time, I know you'd see that we're cut of the same cloth; I'm just the more handsome side of it.

"I'm not going without you, and you've never ridden before. It's not safe." Suddenly, I have an idea: a way to kill two birds with one stone. A devious smile cracks my face. It's the look of a soldier with a dictator in his scope and a bullet in his chamber.

Your face tells me you've come to the same conclusion as me, and are not liking it one bit. "Uh-uh. No. _No_, Barney."

"Christmas," I say, and stride back over to the bar. "You got a deal. But I'ma need one thing from you, first."

* * *

Your fear is palpable. Christmas is zipping the magazine into his jacket, and I'm zipping you into mine. It's two sizes too large and hides your hands when they're at your sides, but it'll do the job. Then I buckle you into my helmet. I don't have a spare, but that's easily fixed. It's only a little loose on you, and Christmas is a safe rider. For a Ducati buff, anyway.

"I don't think this is smart," you say plaintively, tipping the helmet back from your anxious eyes. "I've never ridden a motorcycle," you remind me for the fifth time.

I chuckle. "Stop looking like you're a jarhead going to war. Lee'll take good care of you. _Won't you, Lee?_" I bare my teeth at him in a gross parody of a smile.

"Hey, Meera, Layla here rides smooth as a Beretta's action. You're in the best hands." With that, he stomps the bike to life. The growls of the motor fill the hangar.

"I can't do this," you say, a little manically. Your eyes are massive, and I can see you starting to sweat. "I can't."

I bend down six inches, to your level, and look you square in the eye. "I know you can."

You're breathing a little harder, and you glance at Christmas, then back to me. You bite your lower lip in that anxious habit of yours. You know you could say no. You can _always _say no, if you want. But you want to prove yourself, as much to me and others as to yourself. By showing what's different, what's changed and changing inside of you, you make it so. I can see the morph come over you when you consciously put your trust in me, once more, despite what you're feeling and your own belief in yourself.

I smile. I've nursed you from ghost to flesh in a month's time. I know exactly what you're capable of. "Now," I start, turning you by the shoulders and guiding you closer to Christmas. "See those pipes? They're gonna get hot the longer the bike runs, so when you get on and off, don't touch 'em."

"Okay."

"And don't lean into the turn, just stay balanced. Lee'll handle the rest."

"Okay."

Christmas scoots forward a little, and smiles reassuringly. "It's alright, Meera," he says gently, like he's talking to a cat stuck in a tree. He extends a hand, palm up, balancing the bike with the other and his legs.

You swallow hard, and take his hand. Swinging your right leg up, you seat yourself behind him. You grab two big handfuls of his jacket with white knuckles. If your toes were free, I bet that you'd wrap them around something, too. The vibration of the bike causes the tips of your hair protruding from beneath the helmet to shake, giving you the slightest neurotic air.

"Good back there?" Christmas yells.

"Yes!" you respond over the bike's noise, obviously trying to dig up some courage with volume.

"Okay, we're gonna go for a spin down the runway and back. You ready?"

"Yes!"

Christmas twists the throttle and the bike edges forward. I can't hear your gasp, but you instinctively plaster your cheek and chest to his back. He doesn't know how lucky he is, at that moment.

I pace with the bike to the hangar entrance, and Christmas hollers, "Here we go!"

The bike starts to accelerate, and over the sound of the motor, I hear you yell fearfully, _"OHHH DAMN YOU BAR-NEY!"_

That makes me laugh, because it's the first time I've heard you cuss. I wave to your shrinking back.

The noise from the bike fades, and the sounds of a stray bird on the roof and the breeze clinking the wind sock's buckle on the pole have room again. The runway is about a mile and a half long, made for 747's and other long, heavy planes. When I bought this place, it was with the knowledge that Santa's lazy, fat ass would take a while to get into the air (shitty PBY planes: no wonder they only made a dozen...). That said, Christmas has about four minutes to curb your fear. I have faith in my main man. He's done way more with way less.

What if I've pushed you too far? You've been steadily and ravenously reading through all my books, even the manuals for weird shit like the oven and the truck. When you're not doing that, you've been tooling around with me and asking pointed questions about damn near everythinig you see on TV. Up until now, the scariest thing you've done is ride shotgun and lay under a rickety plane. I've been right beside you for any endeavors, holding your hand through it all. I've been your filter for the world. As hard as it is for me to relinquish that role, I know it's important for you to stand on your own two feet. I'll be there to back you up.

I watch the bike turn at the end of the runway and I light a cigar, feeling the strangest mix of sadness and contentment. Christmas is keeping it under fifty, same as I would if I were toting a newbie. I stream the smoke from my nose and grudgingly decide to loosen up on him a little. He's a man I consistently trust with my life. Therefore, I trust him with you.

Seconds later you're back, and all I can see it the top of your helmet peeking over Christmas's shoulder. He coasts close enough to talk.

"So?" I prompt as Christmas throttles down a bit.

You raise your head and give me a sour look.

My heart sinks like a hit sub into black nothingness. Shit, I knew it. Looks like I messed up, yet again. I should've known...

Then, the corners of your mouth start to twitch. Soon I'm faced with a full-blown smile, literally the biggest I've seen you sport. "That was amazing!" You lean around to look at Christmas joyfully. "Can we go again?"

He laughs and wheels around. This time, when you take off, your grip loosens on his jacket and your hands fly up in the air. Faintly, I hear a cry escape you, high and exuberant as a hawk's.

At that moment, I see a glimpse of the person you're putting yourself back together to be. It fills me up inside like a victory beer in the cockpit, enroute home after a successful mission.

You and Christmas take three more circuts of the runway before you pat his shoulder and say something I can't hear. He nods, gives you an elbow to pivot on as you dismount, and you walk up to me with a face flushed with happiness.

"Can I ride with you, now?"

The most sincere flattery I've ever heard, and you aren't even aware. "Hell, yeah." I drag the cover off my bike, and you grin at the chrome skull.

With your arms around my chest, I take you on a counter-circut route, looping behind the hangar to extend the trip. I can feel your head turning to look at everything, and recall what it was like to ride for the first time: the sky open above you, the road dizzyingly fast below, the snarl of the throttle and the feeling of intoxication. Smells keener, sights more detailed, and the sensation of moving with nothing between you and the world but leather like a drug.

I yell over my shoulder, "Think you're ready to go on the road?"

"Yes, yes!" you yell back.

I grin at your enthusiasm. Looks like you found your bravery.

We swing by and pick up Christmas, then head two towns over to the biker supply store. You relax enough behind me to lean back against the back seat, putting your hands on your thighs. Christmas rides flank, playing around and doing loops of us, making the most of the racing bike's power. You gasp at his antics, and it makes me smile.

This is the happiest I've been in a long time. Good friend by my side. Good bike under me. Good woman riding behind me. This is about as sweet as it gets.

* * *

We walk our bikes backwards into some parks, cock the helmets on the handlebars, and walk into the smell of leather and tires.

Behind the cracked counter, there's a worn-out biker chick who's smoked two packs a day since she could suck. "Oh, honey," she rasps reedily, looking you up and down in your overgrown leather jacket. "You've come to the right place."

"Hope your wallet it bulletproof," Christmas mutters, leaning in as the woman whisks you off.

I shake my head and chuckle. "Let her try."

The only thing I have a hand in helping you pick is your helmet: a full-faced black one with green mirror tint to the visor. You slide it on, and it changes your entire bearing. It's not Meera: it's a BAMF with beastin' clothes and her own sick ride. The image my mind conjures is fierce and wild, and it enthuses me greatly to think that you'll get there, one day.

"What do you think?" you ask, voice muffled.

I rap on your padded head. "Good fit."

The biker chick talks you into your first civilian clothes, too. When you step from behind the curtain in a soft cotton tee that has some leaves on it and a bird resting on the hip, I stop thumbing through the fingerless gloves to gape.

"Feels weird," you mutter, shifting self consciously in your boots.

"Born To Be Wild," reads the shirt. The words are stretched over you in ways that make my brain momentarily flicker out. Slim hips, prominent hipbones, _perfect _waist, and breasts like...whoa. I've been sleeping, eating, driving, working out, and living life around _that, _with absolutely no idea. I must be fucking blind. Why am I just noticing this now? You're gorgeous.

That's probably what your rapists thought, too. There's some mental cold water.

You're waiting for me to say something, but I've got nothing. I close my mouth and nod, and you smile shyly.

Why the hell didn't I get you to pick out some civies sooner?!

You wind up wearing whatever can't fit in the saddlebags on my bike, including your new helmet and jacket. The store sells combat boots in smaller sizes than what I have in storage, so you're breaking in a new pair proudly.

"The guys are getting together at Tool's in two nights," Christmas says from where he's draped over the bars of his idling bike as I strap the bags closed. "Ceasar is getting his razor tatted on his shoulder."

"His relationship with that razor is wrong," I groan, straddling my bike. It barely dips when you slid into place behind me.

"On many levels, mate. You should come. Both of you."

My ability to perceive your emotions is limited by the helmet, so I'm left to answer ambiguously, "We'll see how the week plays out."

Christmas earns his title of best friend when he simply takes my answer with a nod. "Well, I left a batch of jerky in the maker," says he says. It's an old joke between us: our version of 'I left the oven on.' "So I've gotta bug out. Later, Barney. Nice riding with you, Meera."

You flip the visor up on your helmet to beam at him. "Thank you, Christmas."

He flushes ever so slightly at having the full force of your gratitude turned on him, waves, and motors off.

The sun is setting as we weave our way back home. On the way, I am surprised to realize that even at your most fearful while riding with Christmas, you only took handfuls of his jacket. Now, at your most relaxed, you've wrapped your arms around my chest.

* * *

You're walking around with a toothbrush in your mouth. The loose BDU you sleep in used to be mine, and it flutters in the breeze stirred by your messing with the fans. I think you chose it because it's been softened by years of wear. I hope that's why you chose it.

I've had two whiskeys to calm myself the hell down. The image of you, shy and lovely, in _that shirt _was stamped to the inside of my eyelids for one-and-a-half of them. There's all sorts of emotion bubbling up inside of me, and I need to end this day, or I'm gonna rock the boat. If I'm careless with some look or word, in the state I'm in, I could let you in on the feelings. I could ruin the fortress I've spent our entire relationship trying to build, but that you keep blowing cannon holes in, without a single clue.

"Tomorrow's a big day," I say as I turn down my own sheets and forcibly shake myself out of this mindset.

"Wiyf 'at?" you ask, a little foam trickling past your lips.

"Because I'm gonna teach you how to shoot." Yeah, the alcohol might be talking for me, but it's talking sense. Seeing Christmas again brought back the nagging feeling that I'd been off mission for too long. Something was eventually going to trickle down the pipe, and I needed you prepared to keep yourself safe if I had to leave. Well, as prepared as I could make you. God, just the thought made my neck tighten.

You look surprised, but you swallow hastily in order to answer. "I have been waiting on you to say that for weeks, Barney."

"Yeah, I'm a little slow on the uptake."

You 'humph' and go to put up your toothbrush, muttering something that sounds faintly like, "I'll say."

By the time you get get back I've got your bandage change laid out. I can't forego it, because it would make you curious. When you're curious, you ask a lot of questions. Answering them would open a can of worms that not even the booze could help me with. So I man up and set about the familiar ritual. "Almost healed," I remark, touching your slender ankle. The wire that kept you still and compliant in Nepal has left permanent magenta grooves just above your feet. You've got unnaturally pretty feet. Ah, dammit, not again.

We arrange ourselves, and I lean down to turn off the last lantern. Safe from prying eyes, finally. But I can't sleep without one answer. "Hey Meera? You heard what Christmas said, right?"

I hear you turn over to face me across our little strait. "Yeah."

"What do you think? You ready to meet my friends?"

You gather your wits and say, "As ready as I'll ever be."

Bold little thing. How can I categorize you, box you in, essentially degrade you with my man's mind? You've been through too, too much. It makes me ache inside to think I'm joining the ranks of men who have thought of you that way. No, I'm not as disgusting as them, I'm sure of it, but it's a slippery slope to start down. I refuse to do it. I will simply put your body from my mind: every time I saw you naked and abused, every time I saw you smiling at me so damn trustingly, every time the smell of you slaps my hindbrain to attention, every fucking thing that will tempt me to fall for you.

Oh, God, _fall for you. _That's what I'm doing. An ungodly determination seizes me. I refuse!

I fall asleep chanting that, shutting down all the emotion like the soldier I am.

I refuse (I'm fucking terrified.)

I refuse (What would you think of me? I'd be the pervert who brought home a raped woman, nursed her back to health, and - surprise! I'm not your knight in shining armor, I'm the more economically stable version of those Nepalese soldiers.)

I refuse (What would your face look like if I slipped up? If I said or did something that tipped you off? Oh, God, I wouldn't be able to stand the hurt I'd see there.)

I refuse (I've got no business being with you. None.)

I refuse (What would I ever do if I lost you...?)


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks for your patience, everyone. On to Chapter 9!**

* * *

The next day dawns easier than my night had been. You offer to make us MRE oatmeal, and I start early on my first beer. I'm going to need it to shake the effects of last night. While I swig it copiously, I select and inspect a wide range of guns from storage, my locker outside, and from various hidden stations around the big room. I want to give you options, so we can find one that fits you.

Yep, I'm just fine. Beer in hand, I carry ammo boxes and tins from down the hall. Bloody brilliant, as Christmas would say. Which reminds me...

"What did you think of Lee?" I ask. I'm as proud of the ease in my voice as any headshot.

You're watering down the oatmeal with a critical eye. "He's nice. He and I talked a bunch on the bike. He's a lot like you."

See, what'd I tell you? Same cloth, different sides.

"And he's much more handsome than you portray him in your stories."

You must've felt my face darken from all the way over there, because you turn around and grin at me. "Kidding, Barney."

"Not funny," I mutter under my breath. Grin or no, that was harsh. You don't know how harsh, of course, but last night's private little boozed-up soul searching has got me sensitized. So much for waking up to a new day. I must be PMS-ing, bad.

"Yes it is," you shoot back, plunking down two bowls.

"What're you, a bat?" I ask moodily. I can't hold it back.

"What are you, a troll?" You rejoin, picking at me barbedly. Apparently, two can play this game.

"And what's with the domestic urges lately, huh?" I mock, warming to my pissyness. "Feeling nesty?"

"This coming from the man who wipes down the bench after workout!"

Now, for the core of what's bothering me. "Yeah, you were real friendly to Christmas. Accents get you riled?"

That statement makes you look like you want to jackslap me. "He's _your _friend!" There's no guilty flicker in your eyes, but that does little to assuage me.

"Idiot." You don't know what you put me through: agonizingly innocent, naive, fragile Meera. Too fragile to touch, too weak to love. Too damn hurt to withstand my affection if I gave it to you. You would blow away like a released balloon. How could I let you get this close, knowing, _knowing _that it would only kill me softly?

Your eyes are shooting fire as you spit, "Ass."

We stare each other down, both of us leaning on spread arms on opposite ends of the countertop, simmering away nonverbally. A Mexican standoff.

Then, you start to giggle. Then, laugh.

I'm thrown for a loop of epic proportions. It's the first time you've laughed in five weeks of being around me. It's the sweetest sound I've ever heard, comparable to a supply helicopter after weeks of rations. It shocks the irritation out of me. And I have to laugh with you, because I'm so damn relieved that you still can do it.

It takes you a good while to stop, because I think you're out of practice and you didn't realize you missed it. You raise up with wet eyes to regard me forgivingly.

I can't say no to that face. Last night's problems vanish from my mind, and finally, I'm clear enough to focus.

* * *

Outside, we start dragging wooden pallets, spare timber, and rogue metal sheets to the back of the building. The effort has you huffing, but those things are heavy. You tough it out like a champ, and even seem to relish the sweating and effort as much as me.

The definition of the muscles in your arms tips me off, though. "Have you been working out?"

You look at me bashfully, and answer me hesitantly. "A little. When you are in the shower or whatever."

"Why?"

You shrug. "I need to be strong." You say, like that explains it. "You're strong," you follow up, as though that's a good reason.

"Yeah, but it's part of my job."

The pallet you've been wrestling with slams into place. Damn, that's a good tricep for a woman. "Then I guess it is part of my job not to be weak forever."

That statement ticks a red flag. I put a hand on your sweaty shoulder from behind, and it covers you from collarbone to scapula. "You don't have to be strong for me," I say softly, earnestly. "I mean it. You can take your time."

Your fingers cover mine, and you duck your head at the sincerity in my tone. Your short hair falls away from the knobby nape of your neck. "I know that," you say, just as softly. "But if I don't move forward with my life, this new life, I will be stuck."

I can accept that, because I live under the same conditions. While we're talking openly, I might as well ask, "Meera, are you happy?"

You stiffen with surprise, and my hand falls off as you turn. "Yes, I'm happy," you say insistently, like it should have been obvious.

I continue anyway, because this has to be said. "If you're not happy here," with me, I mean, "You don't have to stay. I can find you a place in town, or anywhere in the world, and set you up comfortably..."

You actually look offended. So offended, in fact, that you draw back and punch me in the gut. No, it doesn't hurt, and it barely moves me. "This is my place," you say with fury I didn't know you possessed. "This is my home. And unless something happens to you, or you wish me gone, it will continue to be."

I'm kind of stunned by the fierceness you exude. One, you punched me. Two, you mean every word. I can't argue with you: there's a surety in your voice and posture that I recognize as the assurance my men have in the field.

So you've been thinking deep things about this ass-backwards-and-upside-down relationship, too? That both worries and thrills me.

I put my hands up, palms out, and laugh it off. "Okay, okay, I believe you. Easy, tiger."

You relax grudgingly, then the rest of the way with a thin smile and narrowed eyes. "Good." You don't know how happy you just made me.

We set about layering the pallets and metal and timber into targets thick enough to catch lead. We work in amiable silence for several minutes.

Then, you ask me something that catches me off guard. "Barney?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you get all those scars from fighting? From being a mercenary?"

That's one way out of left field. "Yeah, almost all of 'em," I reply, wondering where you're going with this.

You clap your gloves together after you hand me the last piece of metal. "Can you teach me how to fight, too?"

I turn to look at you critically. Your gaze is steady, if apprehensive. I remember what those eyes looked like over a blood stained gag, raging at me from the floor of a Nepal hut. You should never have to meet an enemy with your eyes being your only weapon again. Or, frankly, be stuck with throwing punches like earlier again.

"Yeah," I say, tugging off my own gloves. "I can do that."

You nod, and say what's been on and off my mind for two weeks now. "I know that you will have to leave, soon. To go on a job." You meet my gaze. "I want - no, need - to be ready."

Ready to protect youself. Ready to function in the country and world I've brought you into. Ready to defend your own honor, dignity, life, soul, body. I exhale heavily, and understand the gravity of what you say...and what you don't. You're saying you don't want to be a victim ever again.

"Help me get the guns?"

"Sure." Your pace is bouncier than mine, and it makes me marvel. Even though you've been put through the worst hells, you still manage to have more of a spring in your step than me.

* * *

"Okay, let's start from the top," I say coachingly. I sweep my hand to the guns on the left of the blanket spread out on the ground. "Rifles and shotguns." Then, I motion right. "Pistols."

You nod in acknowledgement.

I crouch down and pick up a pistol. "This is a - "

"Ruger .9 millimeter, semi-automatic," you cut me off. "Typical of what police carry."

I blink. "Right." I put it down and point to another. "This is...?"

"Colt Peacemaker, .45 caliber. Tamed the west."

"And this one?"

"Springfield 1911, .45 caliber. Every gun company has their own version."

I sit back on my heels and give you a suspicious look. "Just how much do you remember from those books?"

"Everything," you reply immediately, without guile.

Everything, huh? Impossible, but I'm willing to test that theory. "Alright, miss scholar, let's see." I go down the line of guns. Every one of them, you can tell me the make, company, caliber, and something memorable. There's almost thirty pistols and ten rifles and shotguns on the blanket.

I'm left scratching my head. You haven't even seen three-quarters of these guns. "How do you know all this?"

You give me a withering look. "Barney, I read. A lot. And you talk. A lot."

Apparently. "Let's move on to the holds."

I coax you into a Weaver stance: weight 75% on your leading left foot, right hand wrapped around the pistol grip and pushing out, while your left hand is wrapped around the right and pulling backwards. "The push and pull of your arms cycles the kickback energy and reduces recoil," I explain, nudging your arms higher.

"Uh, huh." You're focusing hard on looking down the barrel.

"It's not loaded, tiger," I chuckle, using the sentiment again because it suits you. "This is the stance portion of training, nothing more."

You look mildly disappointed.

"Weaver stance can be used extended out, like you are now. Or," I tap your inner elbow to bring your hands in closer. "Tightened up, like this."

"Which is best?" you ask rationally.

"They both have their uses," I conceed. "Once you've found your ideal gun and can shoot any stance, in any way, it'll flow with the situation. There's never one stance for everything. You could be running and shooting, or returning fire from cover, or just stopping someone from charging you."

Your eyes got a little wider at those scenarios. "Oh."

I take you through the Chapman and Iscoceles stances. Once I think you've grasped them all, and their variants, I start to call them out rapid-fire. You fumble the first few transitions, and switch your hand grip once, but then you seem to catch on. I keep going for around ten minutes as the sun climbs higher, until I'm positive you've got it nailed.

"That's great, Meera. But practice is what makes perfect."

"I'll practice every day," you promise, looking pleased at my praise.

"Damn straight you will," I say with a grin.

We take a break and lean in the shade of the hangar's narrow eave, sharing a bag of jerky. "I'm sorry about earlier," you say shamedly.

"What earlier?" I ask.

You look grateful at the out, but you won't let yourself off as easy as I will. "I mean calling you an ass."

"Oh, that. Meera, I've been called worse." How sensitive: an apology over something I view as small potatoes. You're too damn sweet...

"I mean," you drawl on. "You may in fact be an ass, but you're essentially my ass, so I can't call you on it."

I choke on the jerky. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You're my ass. Or your ass is mine, whichever you prefer."

I'm leaning against the hangar's concrete wall for support to keep from keeling over, breathless with laughter. You laugh with me, and it feels like my soul's getting a cleansing rain.

Maybe laughter is the best therapy, after all.

"My next tattoo," I gasp. "Will be your name on my ass."

You wrinkle your nose, fighting the giggles. "Gross!"

"Just so...pfft!...you can call it yours!"

That starts us off again, and when we finally get it all out of our system, the shadow of the hangar's eaves no longer shade us.

"Priceless," I chuckle, leading you back onto the range.

"I wanted you to know," you say, pulling down your aviators. "That if you bring me around your friends, like tomorrow night, I'll be okay. I won't be taking shit, I'll be dishing it." You glance at me brightly. "Like you do!"

Your turn of phrase reflects who you're spending time around, and it makes me chuckle. You think you're ready, and so do I. What choice do I have but to accept that? It's time for you to make your debut. I nod in agreement.

You grin. "I swear, I won't embarass you in front of your friends."

I give you a cocked eyebrow at that.

"Well," you correct with a smirk. "I will, but you'll be laughing with them, I promise."

I shake my head. Look who grew a funnybone. "As long as you're happy, I don't care."

Your mouth twitches in a wry smile. "Yeah," you say quietly under your breath. "I know."

By the time I realize there's sentiment behind those words, the moment has passed.

We decide to go over pistols for a while longer, and I teach you basic safety forms. You are learning, and by the time we switch to sighting practice, I'm fairly sure you won't blow off my foot. All the same, I stave you off live ammo until tomorrow.

Sighting down the barrel is hard for you. There's something that catches you about lining up the sights with the target, and it takes me a half-hour of correction and your frustration to figure it out.

I lead you through the dominant eye test.

"This one," you point to your left eye.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Why, is that a problem?"

"No. You're left-eye dominant, that's all."

You frown. "What does that mean?"

"Not much. Just that when you shoot distance through iron sights or something similar, you'll have to do it left-handed."

Your brow furrows as you mull this over. "I guess that's not so bad."

"Left-handed guys have the same problem, just reversed," I console. "It happens."

You sigh, and stare down the range at the target. I imagine it seems even further from your grasp, now.

"You know," I reason, sidling to stand beside you. "It can be a tactical advantage, if you think about it."

You snort, sensing I'm just coddling you.

"Really. Most hand-to-hand combat moves are geared against the right-handed shooter. A soldier in close quarters combat carries something like an M16, like me. You remember when we first met, what my gun looked like?"

You wince a bit, but pass my subtle test. "Yes, I remember."

"It's a shortened rifle, basically, so if you carried it, you'd be carrying and shooting left-eyed and left-handed. All the techniques commonly taught for disarming are used against the soldiers who carry those guns right-handed, for shooting with their right eyes dominant. You see what I'm saying?"

Slowly, a smile grows into place. "I think I do. It would be harder for that gun to be taken from me, right?"

"Left, actually." You snicker at the pun. "Correct. Why don't we switch to long guns?"

Tactical rifles become a passion for you in a few short hours. I teach you the stances, the safety, and the sighting. When I take a step back to check your stance, I have to be amazed.

This woman, holding a AK-47 like she owns it, and sighting with the laser dot perfectly on target, was tied up in a Nepal hut being violated literally to death not two months earlier. You have grown so much. You were a sickly, anemic plant I rescued from a parking lot, placed in spartan soil, and did little more than shelter and feed. The rest was all you. You're the one who took initiative to read all my books, to ask all those questions, to drown yourself in the knowledge of my job's wicked crafts and somehow walk away untainted. Because guns and weapons and knowledge aren't evil in your eyes. They're justice for those who would harm you: they're an anchor for your growing sense of self; they're a source of power that you would otherwise be without, or vainly seek with your beautiful body for payment.

You break stance, and look at me. "What? Something wrong?"

I smile, give one note of laughter, and shake my head. "Not a thing, Meera. Not a thing."


	10. Chapter 10

The next day, after a quick refresher course, we move on to live ammo in a rifle.

Within the first few minutes, you've ricocheted a round off the ground at my feet.

"Holy shit, Meera! What'd I say about the safety?!" I bark.

You quail a bit, then surge back and answer sharply, "I'm sorry! It was an accident! My finger brushed - "

"I told you not to mess with the safety, didn't I?"

"Yes, but - "

"No buts! Just..." I forcibly exhale, and cradle my head with my hand. "Just...give me a minute."

You lay the gun down on the blanket and stalk off without a word, posture tense as hell, and disappear around the corner of the hangar.

I'm tense as hell, too. Motherfuck, I told you not to touch the safety. That was not a tall order. Rookies and greenhorns and jarheads the world over manage to obey that order, and they haven't got a career mercenary teaching them.

But you've never held a gun in your life until the day before.

I sigh again, a hair less forcibly. I'm calming down, now, and starting to feel guilty. Did I mess up and get loose? I look back over it in my mind's eye, and see no indication that I gave you mixed commands. You've been very good at executing the short phrases of gun drills quickly and with relative precision. Have I moved you too far, too fast into this?

The third time I sigh, the guilt has settled in to stay. For lack of something better, I reach down, pick up the offending rifle, and cycle the bolt. The casing ejects, and I pick it up, bouncing it in my palm. This morning went from sunshine and rainbows to gloom and hurricanes in less than a minute. Was I out of line just now, or was it justifiable having just narrowly escaped being reduced to nine toes? I rub my temples yet again. Fuck me.

You aren't anywhere in the house or outside the hangar, so that leaves one place. I climb the steps into the plane, and meander to the cockpit. "Meera, you there?"

No answer, but I can sense you like trouble hiding in a bush. I stop short of the cockpit, and lean against the emergency hatch. "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. It was an accident, I know that. You're new at this, and I've never taught anyone this much in so short a time. I pushed you too fast, and I'm sorry."

I hear a shifting in the cockpit, and you lean between the seats to look at me. Your eyes are misty, and for the first time in almost two weeks, I see you vulnerable.

Damn it. I feel awful now. "Hey, don't cry. It's not worth tears." I swing into the seat next to you, feet in the aisle, and swipe at the first tear to fall. "Don't cry, please?"

You sniffle, and won't meet my gaze. "I'm so sorry, Barney."

If I felt awful before, I feel like a royal prick now. "It's okay, it's okay."

"I nearly shot you," you say in a wrecked voice.

I turn your face towards me with a palm cupping your wet cheek, and wait until you open your eyes to say, "What's one foot? I got two, and a spare in the closet."

You half sniffle, half laugh at that. You cover my hand with yours, and my thumb reflexively obliterates the tear that slides close to it. The crying has lessened to a few shudders, but the tears still fall.

You think yourself guilty of anything wrong that happens to you. It makes sense, the more I think about it, because you're always pushing yourself to do it right, do it perfect. Your reasoning is that if you're perfect at everything, nothing bad will happen to you. I pray I didn't breed this monster.

"You don't deserve to cry, or feel bad," I say, trying so hard to find the right words that will stem the tide.

You're still holding my hand to your waterfall face, but don't answer. You're locked in.

If I don't stop the guilt train, it'll run you over. I couldn't take it if my idiocy set you back.

Okay, time for a Hail Mary.

I shift forward, wriggle one hand behind you in the seat and the other under your knees, and lift. You gasp, your eyes fly open, and you grab ahold of my shirt in shock. I settle back into my seat, this time, with you in my lap.

I haven't held you close in several days, and I think the lack of contact has weighed on both of us subconsciously. It's almost as though we built our entire relationship on the premise of strong arms to shield a hurting heart, and although the worst has passed, the heart still hurts. It is so easy to forget that.

My arms will always be strong, though. As long as you need them.

_I am falling for you._

It feels like a the smallest of impacts belying the biggest sensations: like the warhead rounds of Ceasar's AA12 shotgun. Five little words echoing in my skull, and my heart starts to shred: the fortress I've built around myself spinning apart like a sandcastle in a tornado.

No, I can't take that. Not now.

I shove it back down, and it feels like a plastic buoy in water: no matter how far I push it, it always bobs back up.

There. Locked up tight. Until next time, at least. But the vaccuum it leaves in my chest is almost as bad.

You curl in my lap like a child, and eventually the crying abates. But it's a long time before either of us makes a move. This feels like home, holding you. It feels natural and needed and right. I swear to myself I'll never go so long without hugging you tight again.

"Hey," I say finally. "At least you were holding it in safety mode."

You breath is hot through my shirt as you huff. "Big load of good that did."

I can tell by your tone that you're okay now, you're out of the woods. "Hungry?"

You lean up and pin me with your humorous eyes. "I'm always hungry, Barney," you say longsufferingly.

I give your hair one last stroke, and help you get to your feet. You then give me a hand to mine, and I follow you out of the plane.

* * *

You're brushing your shoulder-length hair almost obsessively and watching the clock as night falls. I text Tool to see if the guys have come in to roost yet, and he texts back that everyone's there but Ceasar's waiting on us.

"It's all gonna fall out," I tease you.

You stick out your tongue at me. "We game yet?"

"Yep. Let's saddle up."

You grin and pull on your leather jacket, grab your helmet from under your bed, and lace your boots. You're actually ready faster than me, which should indicate something's wrong with me. A man taking longer than a female? The world tilts on its axis.

"Excited?" I ask. I can't help it: I love hearing you voice what you're feeling, for better or worse, because I'm the only one who gets to hear it. I'm the only one who gets to have you pressed against his back while he rides, too. I love that almost as much.

Damn, there's that l-word again.

"A little nervous," you conceed, settling behind me with your knees cradling my hips. Hell, yeah, that's mine.

Damn, no, _that_ is not mine. _That, _and everything attached to _that, _is firmly off limits, brain.

Damn, again. I need to be around the boys tonight, or I might do something crazy like reach down and test the firmness of that calf muscle...

Double, triple, quadruple damn it. I'm gonna lose my mind. "Let's go."

I occupy my hands and mind with the bike. The handlebars vibrate comfortingly. The moon is full, and it seems closer tonight, somehow. Like it's come down further in the sky to watch the humans play at night like moths under its glow.

I'm running from that insistent buoy bobbing in my heart, but I don't care. My pride reminds me I've never run from anything in my life, but I don't care. I twist the throttle and revel in the bike's obedient leap forward. You whoop behind me and laugh: I can feel it against my spine.

I grin, not caring if I catch bugs. It's gonna be a great night.

* * *

I rumble into the small shop, picking my buds out of the light of the neons in the widow. Yin Yang, Gunnar, and Toll Road are kicking it at the self-serve bar, and Christmas is throwing knives at the wooden tribal face on the wall. I find my gut a little tight, even though the ambient mood is our usual good-natured jabs and rejoinders. Classic rock streams from the radio, giving space to listen to Foreigner's 'Double Vision' and room to talk at the same time.

"'Bout time you got here," says Christmas, striding over to bump my fist. "Ceasar's like a waiting prom date."

"'Ey, man! This tat is symbolic of who I am!" protests Ceasar from the tattooing chair, where Tool is prepping his skin for the ink. "Ya'll need to be here, to witness it."

"Yeah, witness your unnatural relationship with that razor," I reply. I heel the kickstand down close to the chair holding my strongest friend, whose acres of muscles can barely fit on the thing.

"Seriously, C, get a woman," Toll Road snickers from his barstool.

"Oh, look who's talkin'...!"

"Tool, what's happenin'?" I ask, grinning at the weathered looking artist.

"Not much, man," Tool says in his post-joint voice. Looking past me, he nods. "Who's your friend?"

"Tool, this is Meera." I say simply. I leave the rest to you.

You finish sliding off the bike and remove your helmet, shaking out your short hair. "Tool, eh? I've heard a lot about you."

The artist's bleach blonde streaks catch the light as he cocks his head at you, grinning like the womanizer he can't help being. "Good things, I hope."

You give just the right amount of shrug and smile. "Mostly."

"She's been warned, Tool, watch out," says Gunnar.

"I'm pretty sure the whole state got that alert," picks up Christmas, flinging a knife. "'We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an emergency alert: An utter Tool has been sighted harassing women of all types...'"

"Still get more tail than you in a week, buddy," snarks Tool, shooting ink into the gun.

The trio at the bar, myself, and you all chuckle and "Ohhh!" at the zing.

So far, so good. They're not all lasered in on you. Christmas must be running interference when I'm not around.

You grin Christmas's way, which he salutes with a knife. Then, to my surprise, you walk over to the three at the bar. That was unexpected. From their expressions, I reckon you've leveled your smile at them. "Hello," you say with the optimal amount of Nepali thickener. "We've not been formally introduced. My name is Meera..."

I'm a little stunned, but let you go to town. I actually feel a slightly naked without you next to me. It both warms and bugs me that you don't feel the same. Ah, what am I thinking? You're not mine. Good for you, stepping out there. I shake it off and tune in to Ceasar and Tool's conversation.

"Open, like this," says Ceasar, holding the infamous straight razor with the blade slightly open to show the inscription of his name. "Right shoulder."

"Nah, nah, it's gotta be like this," urges Tool, reorienting the blade to an upside-down V, on the left shoulder. "It's unique."

"Whadda you think, Barney?" asks Ceasar.

I'm only half-listening to the conversation in front of me. The other half is listening to you try to wrap your tongue around Yin Yang's real name.

"This is why I catch so much crap," the Asian moans. "Name, height, race, all of it."

You laugh. "At least you can't be called Bigfoot like Gunnar, here."

"Hey!" protests the Swede with a laugh. He already likes you, I can tell. Although he's cleaning up his act (off the drugs, into school of all things), he's still not the type of guy to just let a woman tease him and get away without a zing of her own: especially a woman he can't sleep with.

"Whadda think, Barney?" prods Ceasar. "I need an honest inked man's opinion."

I eye the prepped, chocolate-colored canvas of Ceasar's back. "I wouldn't do it on your back."

Both Tool and Ceasar frown and say simultaneously, "You wouldn't?"

"Nope," I say, grinning. "I'd do it here," I make a slashing motion just under my shirt collar. "Open, with the lettering, life-sized."

Tool is taken by the idea, but it's not his skin. "C?"

Ceasar is holding the razor up to his chest, eyeing the mirror. "Barney, you're a genius."

"Thanks, buddy. I'll remind you of that next time we have a repeat of Bolivia."

"Ouch. I thought we all swore on our mother's graves not to repeat Bolivia."

"Alright big guy, flip over," urges Tool, putting on his readers. In seconds, the tattooing gun is humming.

As I walk over to Christmas, who is retrieving his blade from the eye of the tribal face, I check back in with you long-distance.

"T. S. Elliot had to mean a lizard!" You're insisting. "'Come in under the shadow of this red rock.' Wouldn't that suggest a desert gecko?"

Gunnar sips his beer and replies avidly, "To me, it makes me think of a human-sized cave, not a little lizard's bolt hole."

Okay, so you've moved on to...poetry? I didn't even know I owned any poetry books. It's not something I thought I'd hear my men engaging in discussions about, either. But then, they've never talked with a whippish little Nepali who's been shacking with their leader. They don't know the full horror of what happened in that hut I carried you out of. Only Christmas and I actually laid eyes on you. Maybe you're enjoying being around somebody who doesn't know. It's like a fresh start.

Christmas bumps our shoulders and turns to raise the knife in his hand showily. "Having fun yet?"

"Yeah," I say, finding that I mean it. I step back once to give him room. "How's Lacy?" He and his girl have had over a month under the same roof, even though they've been a thing for eight months, and I'm expecting trouble in paradise.

His arm blurrs, flinging a silver flash faster than my eye can track. He chews on his answer until he returns with the blade. "It's wierd. But not bad-wierd."

"Good-wierd?" I urge with a smirk. "Why'd you call me from your ranch range?"

"A few weeks ago? Mate, I'm in love: I can't get slack on target practice."

"So she gets that your job ain't nice?"

"Yeah, she gets it. She may struggle with the time I have to give it, but she gets it. This month off has helped." His knife imbeds itself again. "You ever realize something was missing, only when it shows itself?" he asks abstractly.

"Like reaching for a gun that ain't there," I say with understanding.

"Yeah, exactly. You don't know it's gone until it clobbers you over the head. And then it's like, there it is!"

I'm nodding, and instinctively, my eyes flash to you. It seems you made the fatal error of asking Toll Road about his cauliflower ear, and are now reaping what you sow. "I know what you mean."

Christmas glances at me, then over to you, and back. "How are you?" he asks quieter.

I sigh, feeling that plastic buoy rising up again. "You don't miss a thing, do ya?"

He grins in a way that eases my burden. "Not much. Feel like a smoke break?"

"Yeah."

We walk into the narrow one-lane that Tool's shop sits on. The street is empty, save for the neon forest in the shop's window competing with the moon's luminous gaze.

I light up my cigar, but Christmas doesn't smoke. He just likes to keep the smokers company. "You know what this is, right?" he asks. He means the angst he sees written between my lines.

I blow out my frustration along with my lungful. "I've got a feeling." There's a lot to read between those lines in particular, but Lee's my best friend. He speaks fluent Barney Ross.

Christmas nods. "You're a man, she's a woman, and you've got a bond. What's stopping you?"

"You saw her that night in Nepal, Christmas. She's got a lot more healing left that has nothing to do with her body."

He looks into the shop with me, where you're making a 'nasty' face over your first American beer (to the hilarity of my men). "She seems to be making strides in the right directions. Has she said or done anything to imply you're not welcome?"

"I don't even know if she feels the same." I wrack my brain, and only snap back to reality when hot ash hits my hand. "No," I reply grudgingly. "But that don't mean - "

"Mean what? That she can make her own decisions? Guage her own feelings? Evaluate her own choices, like a big girl?"

I shift my boots and grit my teeth, but I know he's right.

"Just because she got raped, doesn't mean she's incapable of loving you," states Christmas clearly but sympathetically. "You're trying to cage her in according to what you _think _she is, and what you _think _she should be feeling at this stage. But she's not bound to anyone's calendar but her own."

"She's constantly surprising me," I murmur in agreement. "Every time I turn around, she's picked up something new, and turned some fresh corner. The very fact that she wanted to come tonight is a good example."

"Seeing the blokes she last saw when she was covered in blood, bruises, and pilfered clothes takes guts. What's she trying to say with that?"

I don't reply to Lee's rhetoric, but I find that when he answers, his words resound through my entire body. The answer rises from the depths of me and coats the very stratosphere of my soul, like a nuclear mushroom cloud.

"She's trying to say that she's tough enough to take you on, Barney."


	11. Chapter 11

_"She's trying to say that she's tough enough to take you on, Barney."_

"She doesn't even feel...that way. Towards me."

"Have you asked her?"

"No, but - "

"Then you're just spinning your wheels. Useless."

"I can't fucking do it," I say sharply. My stomach clenches in agreement.

"Why?" asks Christmas simply. The man is seriously pushing my buttons.

"Because I'm not...right for her," I reply, throwing down my cigar butt vengefully. "Even if it's mutual, I'm not right for her." There's an eruption of laughter in the shop, and you're in it. Damn, a body shouldn't feel this way when there's no bullets in it.

Christmas sighs and leans against the brick wall. "I can't tell you how to work through that," he admits. "But I can tell you I felt the same with Lacy. Like I wasn't light enough, or something. Her world was all civilian and happy, and ours, Barney...well, it gets pretty dark."

I nod. "Exactly. And Meera don't deserve to be drowned in that." I would be drowning you if I tied you to me. Wouldn't I? I think over how easily you accepted rescue from a foreign gun-totting man on the basis of, as we say in my business, 'the eye-contact contract'. I think about how readily you warmed to a living space swimming with weapons, and even took it upon yourself to learn all you could about them. I think about how well you mesh with me, and are obviously meshing with my friends: a bunch of glorified guns for hire with matching tattoos and a bigger budget.

Okay, maybe your immersion in the life I live was less than traumatic. But that could just be a survival mechanism, to avoid further trauma in your life.

"See, that's the rub," Christmas says ruefully. "The real question is, does she love you enough to risk it?"

I scoff hard. "She don't love me."

"Has she told you that?"

"No, but - "

"Then you don't know shit."

I give him a baleful Look. "I know how she acts around me."

"And how's that?"

I bang the back of my fist against the brick, trying to comfort myself with the pain. "It's like she cares what I feel. About her, the job, the world...She gets scared when I'm mad," I say as an example, thinking back to this morning.

Christmas barks a laugh at that. "Barney, everyone gets scared when you're mad. It's a perk in our job, like big tits or a good handshake. She cares, because you care. You're the one whose been dealing with the shitstorm Nepal left to her. You saying it's wrong for her to be tuned in to you?"

He's right, but I don't like it. "Not the same." I'm tuned in to you because I...well, I just am.

"Yeah, it is," challenges Christmas. "What's your alternative? If you were the soulless motherfucker in real life that you play on TV, then you would've kicked her to the curb as soon as the plane landed. But you didn't."

His joking makes me feel a fraction less like a sandstorm has taken up residence in my ribs. "The point remains. I'm dark, and she's not. I'm hard, and she's not."

"Isn't that kind of the purpose of opposites attract?" Christmas asks. "Call me old-fashioned, but I still think there's some good to be wrung out of that adage."

I 'hmph' dubiously. "I don't see that, at all."

"Well, would _you_ want to be in love with you?"

He's got me, again. "But I don't think she could handle...us. If there even became an 'us'."

"So you admit you love 'er?"

"Lee - " I say warningly.

"You don't have to say it to me, Barn. Just admit it to yourself. Lemme tell you, you'll feel a shitton better."

I stare up at the moon, which has crested the buildings. A potent cocktail mixes in me: frustration, bitterness, and anger at being dragged from - how did you put it to Gunnar? - under my 'red rock'. What good would it do to say the words? I have to wonder, because keeping it locked up obviously is doing me no good. What relief would it be, to let it out, like a withheld confession under torture? To finally, finally end the pain that's been steadily building and driving me crazy since I first laid eyes on you?

I think about that time we first met and I realize, with a flop of my heart, that this all started the second I saw you. You were so beautiful, even then. I could see what shone in your eyes, like embers on ash beds. With those embers barely hanging on to life, I'd taken you home with me and cared for you. Your embers grew a coal, humming with potential, and I simply gave it sustenance. Your internal fires ate up everything I put in front of you: food, knowledge, comfort, what affection a hired killer could muster. You gave so much in return: light that chased away my gloom and lifted my heart. I kept your coal alive even when your tears threatened to douse it, because having seen the light, losing it would be agony.

Then, you broke that one night. You broke wide open, and I realized the coal I'd been nurturing was a phoenix egg.

Now, your plumage is filling out, your eyes finding their fire again, and your bed of ashes can hardly contain you anymore.

I can see you, now. Gleaming red-orange hot. You are stunning, lovely, heart-breakingly and spine-snappingly beautiful. A fledgling phoenix, sleek in places and fuzzy in others, flapping sparks off her wings and straining for the sky.

Somehow, you've managed to raise me from my own ashes, too. Redeemed my soul along with your own.

I do love you. God, I do love you.

"She don't deserve me," I whisper. "She can't want me. I'm messed up, Lee."

He tilts his head and grins at me. "Not as messed up as you think, Barney. Besides...that's up to her. If you give her the choice."

That's all I've ever wanted to give you: a choice. I want you to choose what makes you happy.

But I won't let you choose blindly. In order to resolve this, I have to show you all of me.

Knowing that I have to lay down all my cards scares me more than any mission I've been on. It's one thing for you to exist, free of burden, around me. But giving you the burden of this choice, outright, is asking too much.

"I have to play it out a little longer," I say. "I have to find out if, maybe, she feels the same."

Christmas claps me on the shoulder, and walks towards the shop. "This concludes our therapy session, mate. My work is done. I'll send you the bill."

"Cheap-ass," I snort, following him. "Do you ever give free advice?"

"Yeah, I do. 'Oh, baby, just like that,' or, 'Work it harder, faster'..."

I laugh and leave my heaviness in the street. "You sick bastard."

* * *

When I get back into the shop, you're up on a barstool at Tool's shoulder, watching him inject ink into Ceasar's skin. "Does it hurt?" you ask the black man, frowning in concentration like you do when you're spotting me at the bench press.

"Nah, little lady," Ceasar replies easily. It takes a lot more to hurt Hale Ceasar. I know as much, but I've yet to find the mythical 'A Lot More'.

You glance over the outline of the tattoo, while Tool prepares another needle and gun for shading. "It looks like it does."

Ceasar bites down on a chuckle to keep the needle steady, clearly enjoying your attention. "Ever heard of acupuncture?" Ceasar's one of the more scholarly of our group, and is constantly reading off Oprah's book list and shit. Leave it to him to tickle your brain.

You light up. "Yes. Chinese medicine, right?"

"Right. They believe that by puncturing the skin, you let out all the bad stuff under it. That's what it's like for me. All the bad stuff escapes like - psssssh!" He sweeps his hand, and Tool moves the humming gun off his skin. "Watch it, C."

"My bad. You get what I'm saying, Meera?"

Your eyes darken just enough to convince. "Yeah. I do."

Tool is sensitive to people, which you'd never guess by looking at him or by his habits with women. Maybe it's because he's around so many tough guys with baggage to carry. He sees your demeanor change and intervenes. "Here, Meera." He hands you a sterile gauze. "Wipe when I back off, 'kay?"

You nod. "Okay."

He doesn't let just anybody help out, even in so small a way. He must like you, or at least appreciate that you're interested in his art form. Most women he brings around just don't get the passion he has for ink, or don't care to.

I wander over to where Gunnar, Toll Road and Yin Yang are debating if a Russian elk could be shot from Alaska. "It could be done," insists Gunnar. "Easy."

"There isn't a scope on the planet that could handle that distance," interjects Toll Road.

"Or a bullet balistically capable of getting that far," agrees Yin Yang.

"You might get a round on Russian soil," I hypothesize. "But it'd bounce off the elk." I slap the back of my neck and spin around, imitating the proverbial elk. "Hey, what the hell was that?!"

Gunnar laughs. "I wanna try, one day. Any jobs in that direction, Barney?"

"Yeah, man, it's about that time, ain't it?" echoes Ceasar from the chair.

It's rare we go this long without employment. "The third world is keeping it's act together without us, guys. No bids on our services."

Yin Yang sips his beer and sighs. "It is getting sad when I beat my own board-breaking records."

"You broke fifteen boards, no spacers?" splutters Toll Road.

"Sixteen," replies the Asian mournfully. "Home Depot hates me." He warms suddenly. "You know what they think I am doing with all those boards! They see an Asian hauling through their lumber department, and think, 'Dammit! It's Jackie Chan, again!'"

You laugh with the rest of us on that one. Little do you know, once we start this ball rolling, it goes South from there.

Gunnar pipes up, "Try to go to a fish market as a Swede. They keep trying to recruit me! 'Here', they say. 'Pick up a knife and get to work!'"

"You know, I hate kids," wheedles Toll Road. "There was one in the army surplus store the other day that kept taking fucking pictures of my ear with a smart phone!"

"Man, you wanna know why I got the Look from a cop yesterday?" asks Ceasar indignantly. "I had a damn Ipod on. He thought I'd stolen it!"

"Oh my goodness," you half-chortle, half sympathize. "You should all try lugging this ugly guy around," you say, pointing to me. "I get these stares in Walmart, like, 'Do you know he's following you around, lady? I can call the police for you...'"

They laugh all the harder because you made a joke at my expense. Although enthralled by their reactions, you still glance at me, to make sure it didn't hurt me too much. You soft thing. Don't you know your punches are feathers, your harsh words like the pinch of new boots, your jokes like noonday sun? It's because you share them all with me.

I let Tool pick up the banner and run with it, then Christmas, and I let my turn slide. I'm content to watch you rediscover laughter and people.

* * *

"There," says Tool. "Done."

Ceasar gets up from the chair and admires himself in the mirror. "Yeah, that looks nice!" he says, flexing his muscles and watching the play of the new ink on his chest.

"'Nother slam dunk," I congratulate Tool.

"Looks good, Ceasar," says Toll Road. Gunnar and Yin Yang agree. While Tool cleans and puts away his instruments, the rest of us start to get on our bikes.

"All in a day's work," replies the artist modestly. He cleans his fingers off with a piece of gauze and asks casually, "So, Meera. What you thinkin' 'bout getting?"

You look up startled from gathering the pieces of gauze from the floor where you dropped them. "Me?" you ask, with a little squeak.

"Yeah, honey-bunch. You. What design can I give my assistant?"

Your eyes are wide. "Oh, Tool, I can't. I have no idea what to choose."

I am getting the bike prepped for takeoff, but I know you can handle yourself. If Tool pushes too hard, I'll step in.

"Maybe," you continue thoughtfully. "Something like..." you motion him closer and he lends his ear to your whispers.

Now, I _know_ that's jealousy rearing up inside me. You aren't exactly flirting, but you're getting friendlier than I might like. But my opinion doesn't count for jack, when it comes to you and other people. It bites, really, because it's my own fault that I don't have an irrefutable claim on you. I stomp the bike to life harder than necessary.

Tool is grinning and nodding. "You think so?"

You nod. "Not yet, though. Later."

"Later," he agrees. "When the time's right."

You beam at him, and he smiles back, a little stunned by the expression. Yeah, you have that effect on people, I'm beginning to notice.

I throttle as you walk closer, and you skip a little faster as the rest of the gang answers the call. I nod at Tool while you get on your helmet, and lead the pack out of the shop, onto the street, and towards the highway.

If we hit the highway, it takes several exits for all of us to head home, so we build it into our outings whenever we can. It's a perfect excuse to ride together. There are no cars around this time of night, and the moon's face illuminates our way almost as well as our headlights. God, it feels good to ride with the guys again, to own the road and our brotherhood.

Ceasar whoops a goodbye as he hits his exit, and you unwrap one arm from my chest to wave. Next comes Yin Yang and Toll Road, taking the same exit, then Gunnar and Christmas two later. You wave them all goodbye, and gasp-laugh when Christmas bucks a wheelie meant for you.

We're left alone under the near-sentient gaze of the night. You wrap your arms around me tighter, and I can feel your contentment and wonder at the open highway, spread before us like the stairway to heaven, winking in the lights that bathe it.

* * *

We rumble into the hangar, tired but frosty from the company of like-minded individuals. The rest of the evening goes as usual, except for one thing.

"Barney?" You're laying down in your bed with your back to me.

I'm about to turn off the last lantern, itchy-eyed with sleep. "Yeah?"

You roll over, looking slightly guilty. "About what I said earlier: you being ugly and lugging you around...?"

"Pfft, Meera," I say dismissively. "That was a joke. Don't worry about it."

You flicker a smile at me, but go on. "I didn't mean you were ugly. I think you're handsome. And I love going places with you." You fiddle with a loose thread in the sheet. "I'm always safe with you."

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the handsome comment. "What can I say?" I reply with automatic levity. "You're portable."

You smirk at me. "Was that a short joke?"

"Yep," I say, grinning at you even while my insides flip and slide like live fish. You think I'm handsome?

You finish giggling at my humor. "Goodnight, Barney."

"'Night, Meera."

I turn off the lantern and get comfy, but it's a couple of hours before my mind lets me get to sleep. Part of the reason is that, even though you don't move, I can practically hear your brain's gears turning. What are you thinking about? Is it the same thing as me?

More importantly, how will I ever know?


	12. Chapter 12

Morning is filled with more pistol practice. I don't want to push your skittishness about the long guns, though, so I let it slide. "I just need a break," you say as evenly as you can. "I like handguns more, anyway."

"Do you?" I ask, with mild surprise. Because you were well on your way to adoration with the long guns before the accident.

"Yes, actually," you reply. "You prefer pistols, right?"

I crack a smile. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean you have to." It's almost like a kid imitating a grownup. But you're not a kid, you're my unrequited love. I'm not your role model, I'm your guardian and roommate and...well, a whole slew of other things. Let's not get confused here: you're a woman.

"I know that," you say, framing your slim hips with your hands. "But they make more sense, for me. I'm little, after all. How did you put it? Portable." As Christmas said, able to make your own decisions. I can't forget that. It's a rather critical factor to getting 'you and me' off the ground. I can't double-guess everything you say.

God, I am such a nutcase. "Can't let that go?" I tease.

"Oh, don't worry, Barney," you say mischieviously, swaying into the hangar. "You'll get yours."

"Promise?" I whisper, so you can't hear. I grab the guns and follow you, sighing. Somehow, the hollowness of the words cause a fullness in my ribcage.

When we start shooting, and you only scare me once.

We've run through every caliber of handgun I have, from .9mill to .375. You sailed through them, happily plinking out sacuer-sized groupings from twenty paces away. After I catch you rubbing your wrists, I adjust my own thumb/wrist guard on your skinny arm. "That thing's blessed me through a shitton of conflicts," I say. "It'll bless you, too."

"That's a word the villagers said my father would use," you say reminiscently. It's stupid that it occurs to me now, close to two months later, that you have lived an entire life beyond the weeks we've spent together. "Why blessing?" you ask, touching the leather.

"Because that word best fits something so great."

Your eyes flit to mine, and hold them. "Then you're my blessing, Barney."

I flounder for a minute, my heart struggling to beat. Damn, I both love and loathe the power you hold over my very body. Your glance turns me weak inside, your laugh warms my blood, your soft, sleeping breath soothes my beastl. It's not fair, really. But what can I expect for my own foolish dropping of guard? Really, I brought this on myself for not turning around and walking out of that hut in Nepal.

I don't regret it, though. Can't find an inkling of the stuff.

"You're..." I clear my throat of the creak. "You're a blessing to me, too." That's the obvious, and utterly true response. But I don't know how to react to this. I've been called so many disgusting things, mostly true, over the course of my life. Never a blessing.

There's only one gun left on the blanket. I've got to navigate us past this, or my facade is going to snap. "This," I flail on. "Is the Desert Eagle 50-caliber."

Your eyes widen comically. "Whoa," you pick it out of my hands. "It's heavy."

"And powerful," I caution. I grin at you challegingly. "You think you can handle it?"

You consider the gun. You always consider your answers thoughtfully, then give them your full steam. I wish I was so deliberate. "I think I can," you say.

I square you up with the target, back off a step, plug my ears, and bark, "Fire when ready!"

You pause one, two, three whole seconds. Then, _BOOM!_

All I catch is a blur that causes your elbows elbows to bend and the gun to smack you in the nose. Almost in slow motion, your body falls backwards, and you fold and land on your ass. Your momentum carries you down to your back, though. Blood spurts from your nose and mouth, and you find breath to give voice to your cry of pain and shock.

"Shit!" I snarl, kneeling next to you. "Are you okay, Meera? Answer me!" I should have known it was too much for you. Panic not unlike the free clinic trip sets in. You're still building muscle, and I didn't fully think it through, so distracted I was by...

You groan poingnantly with mastered pain, and turn your head to spit out a mouthful of blood. "Owb," you say weakly.

"It's alright," I sigh to myself as much as you, cupping your face with both hands. "Just a nosebleed and busted lip. It's okay." Thank God, my stupidity did not cost you teeth.

"I dow ith ohay, Bahnee," you mutter. A bit of blood must trickle down your throat, and you start to cough.

I realize I'm still holding your face. I help you sit up. "Pinch below the nose bone, like this," I urge.

You wince as you do so, and your eyes tear up harder. "Owb," you mutter again. But I can tell you're okay. So okay, in fact, that you reach a few feet away to pick up the offending Desert Eagle, and flip the safety on. I have a displaced surge of pride. "Thab hurd," you continue, swiping at your eyes.

Catching my concerned look at the motion, you assure, "Jez wader, Bahnee. Naw teers." You spit another mouthful of blood out.

I chuckle with relief. "Just water."

I call an end to the day's practice, coax you inside, and wrap some ice in a plastic bag and a towel. You apply it to your throbbing face with a grimace. "I just got the thing not-broken," you mourn muffledly from the towel's depths. The blood has mostly cleared, so you can talk normally.

I plop down next to you on the couch and crack a beer, handing you a soda can. What a day, and it ain't even afternoon yet. You put down the towel, pop the top, swig, and apply it in place of the ice. "Very naughty gun," you murmur.

I chuckle, and swig my own drink. "You like it?"

You laugh darkly. "Yes, I do."

* * *

We're both reading, for once, as dusk falls. I'm on the faster-than-God laptop, doing the monthly email check for job offers, and you're muddling through an edible plant handbook. You sigh forcefully, and let the book fall aside. "Barney?"

"Hm?"

You chew your lip. "I have unfinished business with that gun."

I wind up standing behind you, in a lower Weaver stance than yours so that my arms thread beneath yours supplimentarily. My hands swallow yours, and the gun grip. I am reminded that you're short, but finally getting some meat on your bones, by the way your ribs don't press into my forearms.

"Ready?" I ask into your ear.

You nod, and your hair tickles my nose. "Ready."

"Then aim...and fire."

_BOOM! _The gun bucks, and so do you, backwards into me. I'm braced, so we don't go anywhere, but the full of you flattens to the front of me. It's strange, in a way. To be so intimately close, but different from our normal motorcycle arrangement, or even the embrace I hold you in when you cry. This time when we touch, my body encompasses yours. It feels somehow more personal, even though we aren't facing. It feels like I could just lean my head over your shoulder, and steal a kiss, or taste your neck...

"Nice!" you declare of your own shot. You brush out of my arms like water and bound over to your target, which now sports a ridiculously big hole. You laugh when you put your hand through it.

"He ain't getting back up from that shot," I opine. The heat seeping from my front feels like a hint of death's slow claiming.

* * *

The next day, we run out of MRE's.

"I didn't know there was a bottom to this supply," you say with incredulity, pawing around in the cabinet vainly.

"Looks like we'll be taking a pilgrimage," I say.

Your sense of adventure is piqued, and you cock your head, curious. "How far is this pilgrimage? Wheren to?"

I sip my coffee. "About 200 miles, a little town called Lacoma."

You spoon sugar into your own mug. "Roadtrip?" you ask hopefully.

"I guess you could call it that."

You make a fist pump in the air, nosing into your mug as you spin on your heel towards the front door.

Another thing that's universal: go-go juice.

We meander the truck down the highway, your hand fluttering out the window. I'm at peace: the open road with few cars, the warm sun, the smell of the DOT mowing the shoulders, and a Creedence Clearwater Revival marathon on the radio.

"One of my favorite things about America," you say, watching a Corvette split off to its exit. "Is cars."

"Cars themselves, or riding in them?" I ask.

"Both. Cars are interesting machines, but getting inside them and moving..." you trail off, too content to complete the sentence.

The song ends, and the station flips to commercial, so I turn it off because something has occured to me to ask. "Meera, what's your last name?" I'm getting used to feeling like a moron for simple things, but that is eclipsed by the burning curiousity.

You don't miss a beat. "Ross."

Only my soldier's reflexes keep me from ditching the car. My emotions wage war. Are you stroking my ego, or do you really mean that woman I picked up in Nepal is dead and gone? Are you so sure that you want to lose her? "I mean, your parents' name."

"Khaga," you say reluctantly. "But I am Ross, now."

My fingers tighten on the wheel. This feels so good, it has to be bad. "That name can mean trouble," I warn you hollowly.

"I don't care," you state with nonchalant firmness.

And who am I to argue?

And so it starts. Questions boil up inside me about your last twenty-three years without me.

"Your parents died in a rebel attack, right? So who raised you?"

"My mother's mother," you reply, still fluttering your hand in the truck's slipstream. "Teela. When I was fourteen summers, she got malaria and died. I only just learned what malaria was reading your books."

I wince. That had to be hard, losing all of your family at once. "I'm sorry."

You shrug. "It is life. At age fourteen I was a woman in the eyes of the people, so despite my mixed blood and because of reverence for Teela's wishes, I was allowed to build a hut on the edge of the village."

I think back through the huts I cleared on that fateful mission. The one I found you in was the last one I cleared, nestled back in the trees a bit. It had to be yours.

"Any siblings?"

"No. Teela said mother had trouble with birthing me, and no longer could have children." You smile wryly. "For the best, really. No more mixed-bloods."

"Don't be like that," I say, nudging you. "You're more than your skin, Meera."

You look at me gratefully. "Another thing I love about America," you say with a smile. "I'm not just a woman, to be filled with child after child and tied to a house. I'm a person."

Damn right, you are. You're more than a woman, or even a person: you're practically the sun in my solar system. "What was life like for you, day-to-day?" I ask. Then, with a worried glance I add, "If it's not too painful to remember."

"No, it's okay." You pause and purse your lips. "Just finding food, mostly. Keeping the garden, making clothes, playing with the village children. I was the - what is the word? - babysitter for them. I like children."

I chuckle at the unfamiliarity of the word on your tongue. My mind conjures the image of you in the middle of a pack of half-naked kids, head thrown back with laughter, holding one's hand with a toddler on your hip. It brings a new brand of stutter to my heart to think about you, and kids, and you/me/kids. Wanting kids, making kids, seeing them born. Was the miracle of life this fascinating to me before I met you?

Before I get stuck on the 'making kids' aspect of that train of thought, I say, "What about guys? Any husband?"

You give me a Look. "What?" I ask defensively.

"Do you think I had a husband?" you ask, with a bit of a tease.

Uh, oh. I sense danger. "Um, no?"

"Relax, Barney," you pat my arm. "Nobody's looking for me on that side of the pond, as Christmas would say."

"Good," I say. "I might have to beat them off with a stick." I'm pretty sure I just went pale under my tan. Did those words just leave my mouth?

You cackle at my foot in my mouth, but it's more to hide that you have no viable response to that.

Damn. I just stepped on a landmine. If I move an inch or shift my weight, it'll blow my ass into orbit.

Thankfully, you reinsert the firing pin. "Where are we going?" you ask.

"To the place where army goods come to die," I reply. When it goes over your head, I amend, "The mother of all army stores."

"Is it as big as Walmart?"

I chuckle. "Easily."


	13. Chapter 13

The gravel has not been renewed in the parking lot in decades, so a cloud of dust is thrown when I wheel the truck in. The warehouse that looms over it is blandly colored green and nondescript. As we hop out, I can hear seeping through the walls the sounds of forklifts backing up and the grumble of heavy machinery, mixed to the backdrop of hollering working men and clangs, bangs, and splintering wood. In all, it sounds like someone's murdering a zoo.

You fix me with an incredulous look, like you're second guessing the enthusiasm you showed earlier, but spring to my side when I open the wooden door. I let you in first, and congratulate myself internally on my chivalry, but it might be lost on you. There were no doors in Nepal, after all.

The windowless front office is bereft of anything living, save for the dying fern in the corner that barely qualifies. I sidle up to the counter and ding the small round bell. You're eyeing the security camera over the second door like it's possibly a dangerous snake. The sounds are louder now that we're inside the building, and I think it might be throwing you a bit.

"It's always this loud," I assure. "They're a popular place."

"Popular how?" you ask.

A woman in digital camo BDUs swings open the second door and replies for me, "Needed, yes. Popular? Hmph, not so much." She reaches over the countertop to shake my hand. "How ya doin', Barney?"

"Airy," I greet with a smile and a firm pump. "Been a while. How's your pops?"

"Making it," she says with a shrug. "Hates the new meds they've got him on. Who is this?"

You extend your own hand, and Airy takes it. "I'm Meera," you say with a beam. "Nice to meet you."

Airy gives me a glance that practically flattens me with the curiousity it contains. I twich up one eyebrow as if to say, "What?" Saint Peter on a pogo stick, why is everyone and their uncle so damn shocked I'm running around with a woman?!

I think you misread the exchange, because I catch a fleeting displeased expression on your face when you turn to examine the dying fern. I'll have to tell you later, there's no need for you to be concerned.

Wait a minute: you're concerned! Holy shit, you actually care if a woman shows me any attention?

"What can I do for you today, Barney?" asks Airy, her jet black hair spikes belying her personable tone.

I have to put away my elation for later. "I'm out of MREs. I was wondering if you could hook me up."

"Hm, I'll have to check the floor to see what we've got. Walk with me." She motions us around the counter and to the second door. In a small foyer, she hands us both hardhats from the line hung on the wall. "Keep close to me," she warns. "This is not a friendly place."

She opens another door at the end of the foyer, and I hear you gasp. The warehouse dwarfs any Walmart, and even the hangar. The middle of the floor is covered with large wooden shipping containers in a single level, and the walls are stacked floor to ceiling with the same. The floor is populated with the sources of the noise: forklifts and men in hardhats, milling and organizing the jumble around the directives of those with clipboards.

"What is this place?" you ask.

Airy takes the initiative to answer as she leads us into the fray. "We purchase factory seconds, about-to-expire perishables, discontinued items, and items with slight defect from all the branches of the military. Then, we resell them here."

"What is your customer base?" you ask. What the hell...? Oh, yeah. Gunnar mailed you his microeconomics textbook from a previous semester.

Airy glances over her shoulder approvingly. "Smart woman, Barney! How's she end up with you?'

"Funny, January, real funny," I snark.

To you, she replies, "People like Barney who buy bulk, but prefer cheaper channels and a degree of discretion."

"Ah," you say. It takes one woman to understand the business plan of another. Go figure.

The open crates are set up in a grid pattern with space between to walk, so we cross several aisles of paraphanelia. You look into every one of them as we pass: gas masks, helmets, ceramic inserts for flak jackets, dummy handgrenades, water canteens, ALICE backpacks and harnesses, ammo pouches, trenching shovels, tactical kneepads, outdated uniforms tossed pell mell, mess kits, first aid kits of all sizes, and much more.

"Watch it," Airy says cooly, clotheslining us with her outstretched arms. You and I stop abruptly behind her barrier to let a guy on a forklift zoom by. "SLOW THE HELL DOWN!" bellows Airy after him. Her change in volume and commanding tone make your spine straighten automatically. I hide my grin. You would do well in a boot camp.

"They should be just down here," continues Airy in her 'indoor voice', conducting us down a row of open crates. "They chuck a bunch of different types together on the factory line, and we never bother to sort them. So, we call 'em variety packs."

"Clever," you comment with a chuckle. You seem to have forgiven the weighted looks in the front office.

There are about twenty open crates indicated in all, filled to the brim with MREs. Only closer inspection reveals the expiration dates within four months, the uneven sealing, and the smudged print. January wanders off to berate a man a foot taller than her for leaning on a crate instead of working, while you and I start to paw through the arrays. "These boxes are all from differnt years," I tell you. "And the menus change a little every year." I start reading a handful of them off, "Beef and roast vegetables, country captain chicken, pork rib, maple sausage..."

"What is man-i-cotti?" you ask, sounding out the word.

I pause, and look over your shoulder puzzledly. "I have no idea. Pasta?"

You bounce it, testing the weight. "Might be. Hey, look!" You pick up another package. "Chicken with Thai sauce. Thailand is close to Nepal, you know."

"I do know," I say dryly. World maps are kind of a necessity for mercenaries.

"A lot of the food is the same," you continue, unfazed.

I look over a few more options in the crate, and find them appealing. "I like this one. You?"

"Yes."

"Hey, Airy!" I holler.

January is done telling off the tall man, and is inspecting the clipboard of another. "Found one?" she hollers back.

I give the thumbs up, and point to the crate in question.

Airy grins, puts her fingers to her lips, and whistles piercingly. A man mounts a forklift and nods at her hand directives, then salutes.

"It'll take me a minute or two to write the receipt, so feel free to browse if you're careful," Airy says, coming closer. "These dumbasses will mow you over." With that, the queen of the hive strides off towards the office.

"I think she's nice," you say when she's out of earshot.

"Airy can be abrasive," I conceed, pausing at the head of an aisle. "But she's good people."

You nod. "I can feel that. She's just...different."

I snort. "That's a mild term." When January and I first met, I was buying from her father. I remember a post-army woman with several piercings in each ear doing the books and wearing a shirt that read: 'We Don't Need No Nail And Screw; We Are Strictly Tongue-In-Groove'. Over the years, I grew to respect her for her courage and leadership. And, yeah, for moving through women at a rate faster than any man I've seen. She's given me her secrets to such rapid turnover throughout the years, but she always just throws up her hands hopelessly and laughs, insisting, "Barney, you have to be interested for these tips to work! Are you sure you don't swing for my team?"

"Positive," I would reply evenly, eye twitching. "Show me a woman worth my effort, Airy, and I'll try every one of your tips."

Who would have thought I'd find that woman in a hut deep in the jungle? Or that I'd measure you against every one of those so-called tips and find them sorely lacking? They're all for the American woman, secure in herself and morally ambiguous. You aren't quite secure in yourself yet but you're getting there, and I could never see you, a rape victim, with any degree of moral ambiguity. Something about having a crime committed on your very person makes anyone straighten up their right-and-wrong list.

Coming out of my train of thought, I realize you're not with me. Oh, hell. You're just small enough that someone could run you over and think it was a piece of lumber. With a hint of panic, I look around for you. When I locate you, I'm both stunned and stumped.

You're hanging on the roll cage of a forklift, the one that Airy called to help us, with your feet on the tines, talking animatedly to the operator. He is regarding you with a measure of incredulity and confusion, but he seems to be answering your questions. I assume you're trying to figure out how the machine works.

Suddenly, the tines you're balanced on rise, and you resume your balance with a laugh, gesturing outward. The machine edges forward like a snail, and I shake my head. You begged a ride. From a complete stranger. And despite the iron rule of Airy, the man is charmed enough by you to acquiesce.

Your ease at getting past people's defenses amazes me. It's like a superpower that can only be negated by your own fear. It gives me hope that you'll be alright in this country, in this new life.

It also gives me hope that your heart is fertile soil for the seeds I want to plant. Maybe I have a chance at cultivating love from you, after all.

You dismount the tines when the forklift stops in front of the crate we chose. The man extends a palm to you, and you high-five him goodbye and walk towards me.

I want to be jealous, but I can't summon it. "I can dress you up," I groan as you approach. "But I cannot take you _anywhere._"

You grin at me unabashedly.

There's another ear-piercing whistle, and Airy motions us back to the front.

"Ready to go?" I ask.

"Yes," you say. To my utter shock, you thread your arm through mine as we make our way through the bustle. Automatically, I bend at the elbow to hold it there, your fingers light on my forearm.

"Did you see anything else we might need?" I ask, trying to play it cool. Trying to act like my chest isn't inflating like a rooster.

You consider the crates all around. "No. They don't have any guns or ammo."

I have to laugh at that.

We approach the door, and I am chagrinned to see your arm leave the crook of mine. Airy meets us at the foyer and hangs our hardhats back up, acting for all the world like a mom chasing after her house full of kids. In a way, this business is her baby.

"Intersting place," you say by way of compliment.

Airy smiles at you. "Thank you. We try."

She hands me a piece of paper, warm from the Xerox, and I hand over a tight roll of cash.

"See ya, Barney. It was nice to meet you, Meera," Airy says, shaking your hand again.

"You too, January," you reply, smiling.

The smile makes Airy flush. "Friends call me Airy."

"Okay then...Airy," you say, testing the nickname.

We back the truck into the loading bay, and the freshly lidded crate is deposited in the bed. We're on our way in minutes: you with a new friend under your belt, and me with a tingle in the bend of my arm that won't stop.

"Don't worry," I say suddenly, remembering. "Airy's a friend, no more."

Your shoulders tighten a bit, but you nod. "Saw that, did you?" you mutter, meaning your expression at Airy's silent conversation with me.

"She's into women, not men," I explain.

"I thought so," you reply, unbothered. "She held my hand a little long."

I laugh. "Think she's into you?"

You snort. "You wish."

In the quiet and close setting of the truck cab, I feel empowered enough to say meaningfully, "No, I don't wish."

Your gaze snaps to my face, but I can't drive home my point by meeting it. Gos, my finger's on the trigger, but I can't pull it. There's a long minute of uncomfortable silence, a first for us, while we watch the road. Finally, you reach over and stab the radio to life.

I'm both excited I got some reaction to my partial heart-baring, but equally disgusted with myself that I didn't follow through. I sigh softly, and adjust my shades. So close, and yet so far.


	14. Chapter 14

**From here on, we're going to be switching between Meera's point of view and Barney's. Starting from the very beginning...**

* * *

I do not quite know what to make of this situation. I've been dead inside for so long, just to survive, that any change in the horrible status quo is met with numb disbelief. One minute, that nameless, faceless asshole is raping me, and the next, you've shot him dead.

It takes me a minute to process that my body is not being intruded upon anymore. Then another to fight my way through the fog of pain from my face, and wrists, and ankles, and my - oh, hell, you're staring at me strangely.

Oh. You have nice eyes. You seems to be studying me, too.

I stare back with as much venom as I can muster: I picture every face of every man that's had a field day on me, in me, and pour that fuel onto the flames of my anger. I think it loses something on you: I am restrained and tired and a woman. You strike me as a man who knows violence, and intimately. So why are you taking off your gun?

Christ, my cunt hurts. And you can see all of me, naked as the day I was born: hideously beaten and ugly and covered in fluids I have tried for days to forget. Why is there no disgust on your face?

Another soldier comes to the entrance of the tent, and I hear my first English words in a couple of years, but he stops talking when he sees me. There's the horror!

"Thanks, Christmas," you say in a gravelly voice that makes my ears prick. "Give me a minute, woul'ya?"

The other soldier - Christmas, I guess, odd name - is reluctant to leave you alone with me. But, because they've got an understanding I am barely glimpsing the depth of, he does what you ask. We're alone.

You are unbuckling your belt. I thought Americans didn't...! Oh, you're dropping the pistols and kneeling at my right ankle.

"Shh, shh," you say. I didn't realize I'd made a noise.

Holy shit, that is a huge knife! I struggle painfully and fultilely against my bonds, but the wire cuts deeper. I am practically rabid with disappointment and fear. Torture me, will you? I would like to see you introduce me to a pain I do not know. Come on, do it! I DARE you, motherfu -

You stick the knife in the ground and take my foot gently, so gently, and give me a look like... well, I do not know how to describe it, exactly, but it touches some part of me I thought had been burned away by hate and brutality. I tamp down on my fear response and hold still.

You cut the wire on that ankle, and carefully untangle it from the gouges it has formed. I grit my teeth and quiver with pain, but I bear it. I've borne worse.

Upon the freeing of my other foot, I close my legs for the first time since...I can't remember. I literally can't even remember! Now, I am stretched out like Christ on the cross, and wondering if you just want to feel me kick as you take up where the soldier you shot left off.

You cut my left arm free, a minor miracle, and the twine embedded in my skin is removed. I rip the gag from my mouth and cover myself, because you're looking at me, and I feel the slipperyness of my own blood leaking from my nipple. Ouch. I'd almost forgotten about that.

What's your game, American soldier? I watch you as you watch me. Yeah, you're staring, but it doesn't make my skin crawl or my stomach clench in fear. It's wierd, if I had to put a name to it. You look sad and a little angry and incredibly tough, but somehow exude the air that you've never done this before. Like you've never cared before, and are surprising yourself. It feels like you are not seeing my skin and bones, my shame.

Something inside me says your intent is not dastardly, and that's why I haven't backed away from you, but I can scarcely trust my own feelings anymore. They're all over the place since you walked in. I had managed to box them away, because it might actually kill me to feel anything about what they've done to me, but you've gone and scattered them like grain.

Another soldier pauses at the door, not looking in. He's telling you, Barney, to hurry it up.

"Barney," I say aloud, and I wince as I croak. Ouch, again.

"You speak English?" he asks.

At another time, I would have laughed at the obvious statement. Now, the heaviness of my heart only allows me to reply, "Yes."

Another staring match, but I swear, I learn one more tiny thing each time our eyes meet.

You seem to jerk yourself awake and, with a shake of your head, start to roughly peel the clothes off the dead soldier.

"What are you doing?" I ask. He's implying a lot of things without saying a word. I want to hear him say it. Say what I hope he means.

"I'm taking you with me," you reply. You sound like you're expecting me to say no.

Taker me away from this hellhole, the place of my hunt, capture, torture, starvation, thirst, rape, and anguish unspeakable? Yes, yes, please. But to where? I glance around at the wall of reeds and rushes. Anywhere is better than here, I decide.

So I struggle to my knees and take the shirt from your hand, where it had been wrinkling in your grasp, and say, "Okay."

Being pick up by you makes my vision blacken around the edges, but I stay awake. We walk oout of the hut I thought would be my grave, and towards the river, where I can hear a boat.

You have to hand me off to a big, black man when we get to a boat, and it scares me how strong he is. When you take me back, I have to sigh. You feel safer, somehow.

* * *

I do not remember much of the plane ride: just the sensation of movement and the murmur of voices. I drain the water given to me, overcome by thirst, and fade in and out of consciousness. You hold me the whole time.

When we start to fall out of the sky, you ask me what my name is.

I try to speak, but my unused throat and my mild surprise cut off the sound. I swallow, and reply, "Meera."

Your eyes soften, and a very faint smile curls your lips. "Hang on, Meera."

* * *

I want so badly to get clean I can taste it, so I bear the pain of standing and moving when you put me in the shower. At any other time, I would have laughed at your expression: you clearly want to stay, but your morals won't let you. Silly American: morals do not have a place around me anymore. Every moral known has been compromised on me. Morals do not recognize me. I am an alien to them.

I manage to peel off the shirt, biting my tongue around the pain as the dried blood is loosened by the shower of water. I can't bear to look at my torso, but what little bit I catch is mottled in ugly, violent bruises.

I get the pants off much more slowly. They involve bending and moving my legs, and that is torturous. Finally, though, I get them off.

Oh, bliss! The water is getting hotter, and sting my wounds though it may, the grime of days and weeks melt off me. This is so different from a river bath.

I can't remember what I do next, but somehow my feet slip on the slick floor, and I bump my head. It isn't even a hard bump, I recall, but my weakened state multiplies the effects.

When I come to, I am wrapped in a scratchy but warm blanket and we're moving again.

"You'll be okay," you are saying, absently angry and worried.

I know I will be okay. Somehow, I know that as long as you're with me, I will.

* * *

**Present, Barney: **

"Hullo?" I answer the cell phone. I give you a 'keep going' motion, and you continue to fire your clip dry at the pace of a three-Mississippi count into the target against the back of the hangar. The radio is going on batteries, rolling through one of my old cassette tapes.

"Hello, Barney," greets Yin Yang.

I walk a little ways off so I can hear him better. "Hey, man. What's up?" We're men. We need no pleasantries: we stand on the bond of our friendship, not southern hospitality.

"Meera said she wanted to learn how to fight. I can teach her better than you can." No preamble, but that's as much men in general as it is Yin Yang. I'm refreshed by the change of pace, that 'get-it-done' attitude of me and my men, and also heartily pissed at what he's saying.

"I'm sorry?"

"I can teach her better, Barney. You know this."

"Who says?"

"The three black belts hanging on my wall, the dozens of trophies and medals from my competition days in the basement, and countless broken bones and faces across the world."

I want to strangle the Asian through the phone, but I can't. He'd probably email me a roundhouse kick or some shit. Is he right? I glance your way, and your serious expression is amusing. It's like you're trying to imagine faces on the target.

Actually, that would fit with the current stage you're in: methodically, steadily, and murderously working through each rapist's face in your sleep, through nightmares that cause you to wake up sweating and shaking. The last few nights, you've had to fall back to sleep in my arms, or you wouldn't sleep at all.

I should be worried that you're focusing so hard on the target, but I know that it's cathartic. Shooting things and imagining them to be what bugs you is great therapy.

"Barney?" says Yin Yang over the line.

"Yeah, man, I'm here." I rub my face tiredly. He's right, but I don't have to like it. "What if she gets hurt?"

Yin Yang laughs at that. "You should hope she gets hurt in training. It is one less hurt she will get in reality."

I hate Asian thought processes. I think Yin Yang can sense the foreboding look on my face, because he continues, "I'm not going to body slam her, Barney. That's your style of fighting, not mine. I will teach her to use weaknesses and her quickness to take down men many times her size."

I glance at you again, as you've stopped firing. I nod at you, and you reload the clip. You're barely 5'2" and maybe 105 pounds soaking wet. Your muscles are there, but you're more whippish than stacked. You'd be easy prey.

I sigh. "Alright. Fine. But we're doing this my way."

Yin Yang laughs again, and the tone of it concerns me. "I should hope so. You are going to be her practice dummy."

"You're a cruel, sick man."

"And you love it. I'll come over tomorrow after noon." And he hangs up.

I replace the phone and signal you as I walk closer. You flip the safety on and remove an earplug. "Who was that?" you ask concernedly. I know it's on your mind lately that I might be taking a job soon.

"Yin Yang," I reply. "He wants to teach you to fight."

"He does?" you ask excitedly, lighting up. "That's great!"

"He's coming over tomorrow. Think you're ready?"

You consider your answer. "I'm nervous," you confide. "I'm just getting pistols figured out. Now, I have to figure out hands, feet, and so many other things."

Leave it to you to see every limb as a weapon. Your way of thinking is so different, but intriguing. "That may be so," I say. "But Yin Yang is one of the best. He'll do right by you."

Your eyes soften with trust. "Alright."

"Plus, you get to beat me around."

Your face shows shock, reluctance, and hilarity in quick succession. "That sounds like...dangerous fun!"

"Yeah, yeah, don't look so thrilled," I say sarcastically. "Dangerous fun is kind of the name of the game around here, in case you haven't noticed.'

You laugh. "True." You replace the earplug and adjust your stance.

I reach down and rewind the tape. When it stops, I press play, and 'Fat Bottomed Girls' pours grainily out of the speakers.

"Remember: to the beat."

You nod. "Safety off. Firing." And Queen orchaestrates you through your rounds at an even pace.

With your attention occupied, I have to snicker at the song in relation to you. You have no ass, so it kind of tickles me that you'd choose this album out of my collection.

Almost unbidden, my gaze goes to your ass. Nope, still barely there, but perfectly round and...

Dammit. I am a sicker man than I thought.

But my mind won't quit. I catch myself wondering if you would ever let me pinch your butt, if we could ever get to the point in the hazy future of my crystal ball mind's eye when I could let my hands linger on you. I like the idea of that far more than I should. Ass, legs, face, lips, breasts...

Dammit, again. I try to beat the thoughts down, but they continue to play in the back of my mind like a movie theater I'm standing outside of. During the rest of the day, when I find myself watching you, that theater screen looms bigger.

I've always thought you pretty, and your body lovely. Even in those early days when you were one big bruise, your skin over your bones, muscles, and tendons drew my eye like a flare's plume.

It's not right to feel like this. You were raped. Sex is not on the horizon for you any time soon, and therefore, I'm SOL.

But now, my body wants as much as my heart wants. I'm in trouble. I'm in so much damn trouble.

It's one thing to love you. It's another thing entirely to couple that love for you with lust.

I develop a headache behind my eyes that persists until long after the lights are out. Something, _anything_, has got to give, or I'm going to lose my mind. Staring up at the ceiling, I hope to God I can keep from letting any of this show to you.

You'd never forgive me, would you?

Or maybe...like, monkeys on typewriters making words, _maybe_...you feel the same.

My mind immediately consolidates all the tiny things that support that hypothesis: you grin and won't tell me why when you watch me work out. When I wander by in a towel, or my sleep pants, I can feel your eyes moving over me. When we ride the bike, you don't _have _to wrap your arms around me. You don't _have _to sleep next to me. You don't have to slip your arm into the crook of mine, or sit next to me on the couch, or ask for my hugs without tears to justify it.

And instance of that last flickers through my mind. "Barney?" you had said.

Your tone had caught my attention, and I put down the coffee pot. "Yeah?"

You had bitten your lip and looked at me from under those long lashes. "Can I...have a hug?"

You don't _have _to...

but you do all these things. And the more I think about it, the more it comes into focus.

Holy shit, you've been sending me miniscule signals for over a month.

In the dark and breezy room that begs me to sleep, I scrub my face. I'm a moron. I've been so caught up in agonizing over if you were receptive, if you were ready, if you felt the same.

You've been further along than me in this process almost since day one.

I am astounded by my own idiocy, my blindness.

You want me, too.

* * *

**Okay, so I start a new job tomorrow. I may start spacing my updates to a day off in between. Sorry ya'll, but with school and two jobs, I'm gonna do good to remember underwear...**

**Keep reviewing, please! It will inspire me to greatness!**


	15. Chapter 15

The doctor, whose name is Gary, makes me nervous. His manner is calm and cool, but I do not like that he takes the privilege of touching me. I think he takes his occupation too seriously. He calls you Ross, which must be your last name.

The nurse is kind, and the first female presence I have been around in days. I am soothed somewhat by her, even though she is the one wielding the needle.

The sewing of my torn womanhood is excruciating. I know it is necessary, and stitches are a part of Western medicine, but that does not make it any less painful. My eyes are tightly closed, but you, Barney, are close enough I can feel your body heat.

When I flip my hand over, your palm is there to cover it. My very being responds to it with a surge in stamina for the pain, which scares me. Who are you, Barney Ross, to have such an affect on me?

I find myself telling you about my parents, and I am a little surprised that you care. I am reminded that I still do not know your motivation for saving me, or being so kind. What is your angle, Barney Ross?

What do you want with me?

* * *

I break down in the relative quiet of the American vehicle you drive. When you assure me that you are there for me, my heart squeezes in a new way. I do not recognize the feeling your words inspire. In the course of the flood running down my face for the better part of the moon's reign, that foreign notion is washed into the recesses of my mind.

This is the most raw I have ever been in my life. I feel like my soul has been blistered with wear, and sandpapered bare. I feel naked with clothes on, like my heart is ripped out even though it still beats, lost and floating even though gravity still holds me.

They raped me. All of them. I want to die when I think of how many. I had my eyes closed for most, so I will more easily forget them, but the ones whose faces I saw, contorted with violence and obscene pleasure above me, will linger for what feels like eternity.

You hold me as long as I cry, patient and sympathetic, and then lead me outside to watch the sun.

I am blearily staring into space, wondering why you brought me out here. It is just the sun: warming the air, painting the sky like it does every day...

Oh. I think I understand now. You are trying to say, without cheap words, that a new day has started. You mean to say that I can leave the terrible night behind me.

The sun strengthens me. Just like you intended.

* * *

Your home, now that I can take it all in, is a mishmash of military goods, old things, and things being fixed. I am distantly fascinated by American living. I thought it would be more opulent somehow, like the glossy photos I have seen.

You feed me solid food this time, and my mouth fills with so much water at the smell and taste that I want to cry again. I refrain, but do say thank you, because I know politeness is in order.

When you step out, my curiousity gets the better of me, and I carefully walk over to your small bookshelf. So many books! These would have been worth a fortune in my village!

I chose one that I have wanted to read ever since I heard the title: _The Art of War, _by Sun Tzu. Now, more than ever, I want to read about violence made into beauty.

You catch me, and I momentarily worry I have overstepped my bounds, but you seem happy that I have taken an interest.

Your behavior is peculiar. It implies I will be staying here, with you, for a while. When I examine my feelings on the matter, I find cautious excitement and relief. If you had run me off, where would I go? Who would I trust?

I get the feeling, even though you do not phrase it aloud, that you mean to let me stay here even beyond the healing of my wounds.

This is my home now, too. Unless and until I must go.

When you start to take apart the guns you brought in, I am hopelessly intrigued. I wander over carefully, my stitches pulling and my bruises throbbing, and you delight me secretly by pulling out a stool for me to sit on and watch.

I can not help myself. I ask many questions, and you answer all of them. You do not tire of me talking. I catch you smiling at me in a way I do not recognize, and I query, "What?"

You hide the smile again. "Nothin'."

When you ask me why I am interested, I am bemused by the obviousness of the answer. "Because I want to know what you know." It is true: you have an aura of power about you that I crave to imitate, absorb, inbibe. I have never had power in my life.

If I were honest with myself, that aura sings to me. It strikes a sweet chord somewhere unseen and shut away, and I silence its resonance viciously.

You take me firmly by the chin to ask if I am going to kill myself when you turn your back.

Come now, I thought that was obvious, too. "No," I reply evenly. I have been shaved down to the barest sliver of sanity and soul, but I am not going to stay this way. I believe, to my very core, that I will recover from this.

And the more that aura sings to me, the faster I will. Its song tastes like your soul weeping from your pores, so saturated are you by it. I cannot help how it draws me to you, like a moth with ragged wings to the blissful burn of the fire.

* * *

You step out of the shower, and when I sense your presence, I wake up completely. I am taken in by your body, though only your torso is bare to me.

So many scars: punctures and scratches and gashes and scrapes. White and pink and magenta with degrees of age and the care taken.

Your tattoos are a testament to your toughness, and I yearn to study them in detail. I get the feeling they tell your story better and more completely than you can.

I realize I am staring, and that you are letting me, and smile thinly. You continue on your way, and I doze again. Or, at least I try. That muscled chest swirled with your life's work and your history, dotted with beads of water, keeps me from napping completely.

You tap my boots, which you gave me, and I move. You lift my feet back onto your lap, and I can tell you worry you went too far. You need not be concerned. I have only known you less than two days, and your touch is like a balm to my aches, both inside and out.

You use a small box to turn on the bigger box, which I recognize as a television. I am stunned by the moving pictures. When you tease me, the tone makes my heart stutter. "Was this in your stories?"

I use the stutter to fuel my smile. "No."

I am removed from my own head, body, and myriad pains by the moving pictures. In a matter of minutes, I understand why Americans adore their screens so much. It can numb you, if I allow it, or it can instruct you, which I seek.

I get to try famous American coffee. You have put something sweet in it, sweet like the honey harvested in the jungle, but with less subtle interesting flavors. I still like it. For now, I want a little flatness, dullness, thoughtlessness and unfeeling. I need a rest from my troubles. I know they'll be there for me to pick back up.

Television and coffee: the perfect respite.

* * *

You try to get me to voice my opinion on where I want to sleep, but I am far, far too shy to speak my mind. Finally, you have me show you.

I think you are both flattered and mildly flustered by the idea of sleeping side by side. "Why there?" you ask.

I search myself for a word that encompasses both my feelings and my thoughts. "Safe." Yes, that works. Safe from the monsters that haunt the night, the spaces of my blinks, the shadows of my heart.

You are a complete and full safety I have never felt before. It is close to absurd, but I cannot argue with the evidence. I am still very lost, and I cannot apologize for something I need like air.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I whisper. The monsters are rising, taunting me, making me doubt your intentions.

"Because you deserve to be saved," you reply.

I feel the words wash over me like water, and try to quell the rising tide in me by removing my boots. I cannot do it: my stitches shoot pain through me.

You do it for me with gentleness not expected of such big hands. You hold me while I cry, bitter that I am surrounded by amazing prosperity, culture, beauty and richness, but that in the dark of the night it amounts to nothing.

In the dark, I am still tied down, screaming and violated. I am still a sliver of Meera, threatening to snap.

I work that emotion out of my system almost angrily, shoving the tears out like I have a quota to fill. When I have had enough of holding my own hand to the fire, I disentangle myself from your arms and curl up on the bed. You are surprised, but you cover me with the soft cloth sheets and climb into your own bed.

I drift off, feeling like I have been suctioned out inside.

* * *

**Barney, present: **

Yang arrives at 12:01.

"Barney," he greets, keying off his bike. He glances around. "Where is Meera?"

I unfold my arms and put my hands on my hips. "She's inside. I wanna talk to you, first."

The Asian sets his helmet on the seat of the bike. "Okay," he says neutrally. "I'm listening."

I wonder where to start. "I've got some concerns..."

"I see that."

"...and some rules. Or, hell, call 'em guidelines, whatever."

"Okay."

I catch on to his slightly patronizing tone, and give him a Look.

"Sorry, but you sound like a soccer mom," he grins. "No, go on, I am listening."

"I don't want her getting beat up, got it? She's been through enough shit." Yang doesn't know just how much, but I let the words hang for a minute so that he can guess.

He nods with cold understanding. "She's going to be learning how to _throw_ punches. She will learn how to take them, if she hasn't already, on her own."

"She nearly rebroke her nose the other day, so no face shit."

"How'd she do that?" frowns the Asian.

"Desert Eagle to the face during target practice."

"Ouch." He squares off his smaller stature with me, for all the world like he is taking my issues to heart. "Barney, you'll be right there to intervene if anything doesn't suit you. But let me remind you, she's the one who expressed interest. She knows what she's getting into, or she would not have."

I sigh. There I go again, trying to slow the world down for you, when all you want to do is find and keep its pace. "Alright," I say definitively.

"Alright," replies Yang in the same tone.

The pact is made. We talk about where would be best to practice, and settle on the hangar bay, which is open. Since we won't be doing any throws or floor work, Yang says there's no need for mats. In fact, I notice he has brought no gloves or gear at all, and call him on it. "Why would I sanction mats? Do barfights have mats? Will carjackers let you pull on gloves? No. Barefisted and balls out, as they say," he declares. "No decorative forms, no crazy stuff that'll get her killed: practical, useful understanding that will grow with time."

I bite my tongue to keep from disagreeing, but it's a stretch. I silently remind myself he is the expert at hand-to-hand, and that unless he pisses me off, I should defer to his judgement.

"Yang's here," I say, poking my head in.

You're bouncing your knee impatiently on the couch, and leap up when I enter. "Did you scare him?" you deadpan.

You know me too well. "No. Just said 'hey' and all that."

The scent of bullshit makes you snort, but you let my protective inclinations and affronts to your pride slide. You slither past me, out the door. "Hi, Yang," you greet your instructor warmly, and with the slightest hint of apology.

"Hello, Meera. How have you been?" Yang replies, shaking your proffered hand. Oh, so you get pleasantries, and the longtime friend doesn't?

"Fine, thanks. You?"

"Also fine." I want to barf from the hospitality of it all. I thought he was here to teach you to fight, not sip tea and nibble petit fours. I mentally check myself: I'm still a bit surly at being named the punching bag. Is this Yang's payback for denying him extra pay for his mythical 'family'? Even though he recanted the family part, he insists to this day that he deserves handicap pay for being small. I will never understand Asians.

"When we talked at Tool's you mentioned a lot of stuff that might fit me," you start in. Yang's only had a taste of your voracious appetite for knowledge. I stand back and let you exact my revenge for me.

"We are starting from the ground up," informs the Asian. "First, basic punches to basic places. Ready, Barney?"

"Ready," I say affirmatively. Harry Houdini has nothing on me when it comes to taking punches.

Yang switches modes. "Stand there and put up your fists, then. Yes, like that. Meera, plant your feet like his, strong leg forward, perpendicular. Now Meera, see how his stomach is open? The first punch I want you to learn is the jab..."


	16. Chapter 16

Over the next half-moon, we create a life rhythm that beats out our days like a drum. It is certainly new and strange for me, raised in a jungle. And it is new for you, a man who obviously has lived alone his adult life. But when we put the two together, it fits.

I feel useful when you give me things to do, and it helps me to navigate this new culture by feel rather than blindly stumbling.

I read _Four Weapons That Changed The World_ until I understand it.

Guns fascinate me endlessly. Sheer power, in something so seemingly innocuous. You show me how to clean all of them, and before long I think I can do it by myself. I do not ask, though. I know you are still skittish about letting me hold them for longer than it takes a drop of oil to glide into the mechanism. I do not blame you: I am the tiniest bit skittish abouot it, too.

When you work on the airplane with the American Santa Claus on the nose, I try to focus on repainting the details like you suggested. But in the end, I want to know what it is you're doing inside the beast's belly, so I crawl in with you. I don't take up much space, and I can reach the box of tools easier than you. Really, I like being close to you, in an enclosed and peaceful place. It is hard to think of a plane's internal workings as peaceful, but you make it such. No one can get to me here. No one can see, hear, touch, or hurt me here.

You do not count: you would sooner inflict pain on yourself than hurt me, I know.

Come to think of it, that is an observation to remember.

It might explain why you will not admit to yourself that you are growing beyond affection for me.

I help you exercise, keeping that hard and strong body fit for your work. When you do what you call 'bench press', I _will_ you to lift the weights. Does my wish have any power over what your body is capable of doing? Your muscles working capture my attention, and I find myself smiling at how beautiful they are, covered by skin and sweat, occassionally trembling as you push yourself further. I am too embarassed to tell you that, though, when you ask.

I continue to cry my nights away. The hole in my chest is shutting with agonizing slowness, swelling closed. Will I be able to withstand the hurts as long as it takes? I can only hold on to you and pray to my father's God so.

* * *

The car ride to the laundromat, as you call it, introduces me to a new phenomenon: rock and roll music. I love the way I can close my eyes and feel it move around me, vibrating the air, encouraging my body to match its urges. It levitates me in my very seat, makes me soar even though I am seatbelted in place, makes me want to run through the sunshine and maybe, just maybe, find it in myself to laugh again.

But not now. I cannot laugh yet. The hole in my chest sends pangs all over, silencing any small joy. I fight to keep the dying embers of my stolen happiness alive in the face of the spitting rain of my hurts, but it is a constant struggle.

I was raped. I look at the pieces of my shaven down soul, and wonder how I am to put the slivers back together again.

The music helps. In it, I am alive and well and whole if I keep tapping my fingers and listening. Next to you in this fast vehicle, I can pretend to outrun my troubles.

* * *

Lou is a kindly man with an easy smile, but I am nervous around men that are not you. I muster my bravery and shake your friend's hand, then retreat to the safety of your shadow. When you tell me he's blind, I am befuddled. Is that how this culture treats cripples: not as outcasts, but as members of the community? It is a foreign notion to me. I was an outcast in my village because of my mixed heritage, but Lou is physically less than a whole human. I find that I like the idea of seeing cripples and outcasts as normal, because it means in this culture, I can have a fresh start. Lou is able to do almost anything he wants to do, and society accepts him. Will society accept me, too?

The laudromat is interesting, but not nearly so much as the drugstore across the street.

The amount of goods inside the walls are staggering. There are more maunfactured goods here than ten of my villages would see in a generation.

I examine several things until I understand what they are: chocolate, Daniel Steel books (which bore me, a strange occurence), dayplanners, solar garden lights, and neck pillows. Some of these things confuse me: what is their purpose? Why are they needed?

The moment I lay eyes on the hairbrush. my tangled locks start to scream at me. I've been fingering them apart when they are wet, but that is nothing compared to what the brush promises.

I stare at prices until I understand them, then I take the least expensive brush to you. You look bemused at my request, but buy it for me. You also buy us protien bars and candy bars.

The little girl with skin darker than mine asks her grandmother about my nose cast. I am suddenly ashamed of the thing on my face, despite the purpose it serves. The grandmother calls me a fighter, and I can tell she sees more than my outsides when she meets my eyes.

When you agree with her, my heart does that funny squeeze again. What is that?

I find that I love chocolate.

I love it only slightly less when the candy bar makes my throat start to swell.

You swear angrily on the way to the free clinic, and that scares me more than the struggle to breathe.

After several long and tense minutes, the medicine the nurses injected into me starts to work. That, and the pure tasteless air that comes through the mask on my face. I am glad, because I get a knot in my stomach when I look over and see the surgical knife and thin tube intended for me on the tray.

That doctor Gary touches me again with his cool dry hands, but he is distracted by something, I can tell.

You are incredibly edgy, so when you ask to leave without asking anything, I let you go. The doctor follows you out soon after.

The nurse, who is called Wanda, is an exuberant woman who talks rapidly. When I compliment her hair, she takes it well. She compliments mine, too. For the first time in a long time, I feel comraderie with a woman.

You come back in, Barney, smelling like your cigars, but less anxious than before.

* * *

Where is this all coming from? I thought the hole in my chest was closing because it was healng. I was wrong: it was swelling shut due to infection.

Oh God, it feels like dying. Nearly having to be cut open today rattled me more than I thought, and I can't seem to stop spinning from it. I am close to out of my mind with the sensation of falling, sinking, suffocating. Every horrible memory plays over and over in my head like a television I cannot turn off, spiraling me closer and closer to the edge of my sanity...

I shriek, because for a hideously long moment, that is all there is left of me: a ragged, rabid soul with no voice but a scream and no feeling but agony.

For a moment of time, I am completely and utterly lost. I feel like I am dead.

I do not want to be dead.

The simplicity of the emotion blooms inside me like a spark to tinder, and the fire is so bright in the darkness that had fallen inside me, I am momentarily blinded. But the fire speaks to me of better things, of unshakeable will to survive.

I have a choice to make: heed the fire, or the darkness.

"Barney...I don't want to cry anymore."

* * *

**Barney, present:**

"Rule one," starts Yang tersely. "If I hear one, _one _Mr. Miyagi comment, I will throw the perpetrator. Hard."

You slowly raise your hand. "Who is Mr. Miyagi?"

"The Asian karate savant who teaches a boy how to fight in the _Karate Kid _trilogy," I supply helpfully.

Yang glares at me.

"What? That was an explaination, not a comment."

"You _are_ an Asian karate savant," you say confusedly. Pop culture will never be your strong suit.

Yang continues to look like he is itching for a katana to stick in my gut.

For the better part of the session, you don't lay a hand on me. Yang has you drilling the punches, kicks, blocks and combos he has shown you into relative perfection. I think he understands instinctively that you are reluctant to strike me; your protector, housemate, and secret lover (he implied Christmas had spilled the beans, so there went my benefit of the doubt). So, Yang takes it upon himself to soften me up like a meat tenderizer, showing you where and how hits affect the body.

"If you punch like _this! - _he bends double, and from there you can gouge his eyes with your thumbs, break his nose with your palm heel, or loosen some teeth." He demonstrates, and my vision goes silver and purple from his thumbs, even as my solar plexus sings discordantly. "I won a competition with that combo, once upon a time. And then, eighteen years later in the USSR, put three men a head taller than me in the hospital with it. You try, now."

You sock me in the gut, but use only about half your power. I bend over obediently, and you brush your thumbs over my eyes, not digging in, then swipe a palm heel over my nose like you're teasing a baby. You make up for it with a slug to the jaw that impresses me. Well, as impressed as I can be when swallowing my own blood. I'm doing this for you, I remind myself. My pain is negligible compared to what would happen to you if you didn't learn how to defend yourself.

In a few hours, your reluctance has evaporated. That's a good thing, too, otherwise this little training session would accomplish little. You pull your punches just enough to let me know you don't mean it, but you essentially beat me soft by repetition.

I'm surprised you caught on so quickly to something so physical. In the time I've known you, you presented as being more intellectual and bookish than hands-on. But it's the same premise as the guns, in your eyes. You seek empowerment, because you haven't had it in all your 23 years of being the village outcast. Guns, fists, knowledge...it doesn't matter: all of it builds you up, makes you into what you want to be. I can only hope that you like the end result of learning the ins and outs of violence as much as you think.

If I'm honest, I've never seen you this focused, not even with the guns. Are you imagining your rapists' faces when your knuckles meet my body? Are you hearing their grunts of pain superimposed on mine? That would fit the current stage you are in. Nightmares plague you, making you wake up sweating and shaking for the last several nights. Each time, you declined my embrace with a thin smile and a "No, no, I'm fine. Go back to sleep, Barney." But last night, after waking up with a cry that had me reaching under my pillow for a pistol, you finally broke down and asked me to hold you again. If you had not fallen asleep in my arms, I doubt you would have at all.

"Good. Now, let me show you the kicks again," says Yang, stepping in front of me. "The first one, a front push kick."

I am reminded of the "THIS IS SPARTA!" scene in _300 _when my breath leaves my body in one gush. I grunt, and maintain my feet, and eventually straighten.

"And the second, the hop kick. And if I hear one, _one _Mr. Miyagi comment, I will throw you. Hard."

That one actually leaves me on the gritty hangar floor, tweety bird halo intact. I dazedly wonder when he took off his shoes. Shit, that Asian has a cannon for a leg.

"Are you okay, Barney?" you ask, rising worriedly from your stance and mindset.

"Fine," I grunt, getting back up. "Never better."

You bite your lip like you do, and that's the last I see of Caring Meera for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

"You're getting it, Meera," says Yang approvingly. You're moving through the combo drills like they're a dance of danger, and you confidence has increased with the power of your punches. Yang's taught you to channel your energy into the strikes, how to use different muscle groups to give them more strength, and how to hit a handful of pressure points in the torso to inflict pain without much effort.

"Thank you, Yang," you say, pausing to brush a sweaty strand of hair from your face and smile at him.

Wait for it...yep, he flushes at your grin.

I have to smile to myself. If I could strap you to the bomb rack of a B-52 with a joke book in hand, I could conceivably end world conflict.

"Now, I want you to spar Barney," says Yang.

You stiffen with surprise, swinging around to look at him. "You do?"

"I do," confirms the Asian. "I want to see you in combat mode, so that I can show you what to improve on."

Damn, I was hoping you both had forgotten I was there. I'm laid flat on the gritty floor of the hangar, trying to move as little as possible.

You look over at me. "Are you up for it, Barney?"

"Yup," I reply, mustering my strength and rolling to my knees, then my feet. "Let's do this."

Yang arranges us in our fighting stances, the distance of our outstretched arms apart. "Full speed," he says, sounding like a karate instructor. "Half power. Acknowledge hits with a bow. Ready? _Shi-jok!_"

You look nervous as we start to pace in a circle. You should be: you know all the stories I've told you are true, and you've heard more from the other guys. Even if the pain motivation is less in this fight, you still want to win. I can see the thirst for victory in your eyes, under the nervousness.

I almost sidle forward to throw the first punch: a jab to the chin. You block it hesitantly, but in real life, I would have grounded you. I bow.

"Watch him, Meera," says Yang helpfully. "Look for his moves before he shows them."

We rejoin. The tension between us drowns out everything: the sounds of night falling outside, the sounds of breathing and footsteps, even Yang's presence. We are locked on each other, connected, being affected by each other's movements.

Your eyes sharpen in recognition as I make the decision to move. When I come at you again with a punch coiled and aimed for your gut, you smoothly step out of the way and aim an elbow at my face. It grazes my forehead, and I step back and bow. "Nice," I say, and mean it.

This time, you let your confidence out and step in, past the effective range of my fists, and aim an uppercut to my jaw. I move my head just in time. Shit, you're fast! In responce, I bear hug you to my chest.

You squak indignantly, and bounce your forehead off my nose hard enough to make me smell oranges. I drop you, and we both bow warily.

"Watch your power," warns Yang.

"Sorry," you reply, not taking your eyes off me.

"Slow poke," I tease. I liked having you pressed against me, but I'm trying to keep my mind above the belt.

Your eyes narrow. I have just enough time to think, 'Oh, hell'.

You surge forward again, this time with a hop kick aimed at my shoulder. It connects solidly, and sends me reeling, off balance. Upon landing, you land a series of rapid and feather-light punches to my kidneys and floating ribs while I try to get my feet under me again. Just before I get centered, you stomp the back of my knee, a move Yang never taught you, and push-kick me to my back on the ground.

I stare up at you, flush with victory and looking surprised at yourself. Ah, those eyes. From our first meeting, they drew me in. Now, I can't see a hint of the woman from that hut. She's nowhere to be found. In her place is you: bravely staring down a career killer, refusing to be a victim, making your way in this world. It occurs to me that, for the first time, really, I am seeing you as an equal. If I was in love with you before, I'm hopelessly in love with you now.

"Damn, Meera," remarks Yang. "You are faster than I thought." He clearly wasn't expecting it.

"Are you alright, Barney?" you ask concernedly. It's the Meera I know talking. "I'm sorry I hurt you!"

"It's okay," I assure, sitting up and rubbing my shoulder from your kick. "It's not that bad."

You frown at me strangely. "Aren't yuu going to get up?"

I smile blythely. "Shoulder's fine. Knee's not."

You look properly chagrinned. "Yang, are you leaving already?"

"Yeah, I have to beat traffic," says Yang, walking towards his bike. "I think we've done all we can for today, team."

"Thanks for coming, man," I say gratefully from the floor.

"How does a week from now sound for our next session?" asks the Asian, donning his helmet.

"Works for me."

"And me," you reply excitedly.

"Good. Meera, I want you to drill all the combos at least an hour a day. Build muscle memory, and it will be like second nature."

"I will," you promise.

"Barney, you make an excellent dummy."

"I will find a way to pay you back," I give my word darkly.

Yang laughs. "Barney, Meera." With that he puts down his visor, throttles the bike to life, and roars out of the hangar, leaving a half-circle of tire marks on the ground.

"Dramatic exit, much?" you ask, in a rare display of Western wit.

"Yeah," I sigh as his tail ligjt disappears. "He's got SMS."

"What's SMS?"

"Short Man Syndrome. It's terminal."

You snicker, and hold out your hand for me.

I take it, and our eyes meet like magnets. As you help pull me up, electricity shoots through me. I can tell you're affected too, even though you drop my hand, suddenly shy. Your lips part slightly. I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips...

* * *

"I really like the kicks," you say enthusiastically from the kitchen sink later.

I grunt from the sofa, because that's all I can muster. Stopping moving let all the day's aches hit at once. I have one arm thrown over my eyes to ward off the light, and the other is resting shield over my traumatized solar plexus. Shit yeah, you like kicks. Too much, if you ask me.

You run some water, then open the freezer door. "That hop kick is my favorite."

I grunt again in response, not out of disinterest. My diaphram is hating its existence, so getting air for words is kind of low on my priorities.

Your boots walk closer, and you say softly, "Don't move." Somthing cold and wet touches the bruise on my jaw, and I stiffen until I realize what it is. You gently wash the dirt off my sore face, everything not covered by my arm over my eyes. It feels so good to be cared for. I sigh to let you know how much, and I can feel your pleasure radiating. "Ice, now," you say in the same quiet voice. There's a washcloth filled with ice placed gingerly on the bruise. I feel it shift on my skin as you sit down on the floor next to me, keeping the ice in place. Your arm is draped over my chest, and the warmth from it seeps into my shirt.

You stay there until the ice melts away. After you move the sodden cloth, though, you lean your head against my ribs with an almost inaudible sigh of contentment.

I can't believe my luck.


	17. Chapter 17

When I wake up the next morning next to you, Barney, fully clothed and on the same bed, you are looking at me most strangely. There's something behind your eyes, something searching and hoping, that makes me want to help you find and answer your prayer.

I revel in the startling _lightness _of my heart. Last night the wound in my soul split wide open, and all the infection drained out. Now, I am shocked at the way I feel: absolutely free.

So I croak with painful relish, "Hey."

You reply, "Hey."

That word says it all: there's an inflection in your tone that was not there before. I have to smile at it, because it is voicing a chorus with your eyes.

I slide off your chest and walk to the bathroom, needing some air. It is not fair to accept your gifts (the look, the tone, and the emotion behind them) without knowing you are certain you want to give them. We have only known each other for a month. You know me as a person, but not my history, my past, why I am the way I am.

Put that tone away for now, Barney, and those beautiful, beseeching brown eyes. Until you are sure, I cannot accept them.

* * *

I can tell you are waiting for the other foot to drop, as though last night was an escalation and not a surrender. Even as we get up, start the day, and retrieve our laundry from Lou's you are very quiet and observe me closely like you would a hostile force approaching your ambush.

I notice the looks we get as you trail behind me in Walmart, but I cannot focus on them and the unimaginable amount of things on the shelves. We drop off my prescription at the little house in the middle of the store, and waste time until it is ready. The hugeness of the store amazes me: a testament to America's consumerism. Some things are obvious as to their purpose: DVDs, books, yarn, pillows. Other things are more obscure, and I stop to examine them until I understand them: neckties, whisks, dog beds, Nintendo DS, baby shoes, weirdly scented candles. I go up and down every aisle, and you are so shell shocked from last night that you don't even complain.

As I glimpse you pacing outside the women's underclothes section, waiting for me, I remember that you cried last night, too. I frown in thought, because the memory is so vivid it disturbs me. Why did you cry? Are you that invested in me? Is that the well from which flows your searching looks, your tender tone?

Do you care so much about me? If so, why? This question cannot be answered by looking at it, unlike the blue brassiere in my hand. I cannot stare at you until I understand, and that is somewhat frustrating. I know you feel kinship and affection, but that might be just a product of living so closely.

In the end, as we eat our MREs at home, I resign myself to wait. This mystery will only reveal itself fully if I gather the facts as they present themselves.

Because if the answer is what I am expecting, hoping, wondering...

I cannot afford to be wrong.

* * *

The hairbrush I had so looked forward to using turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. Instead of making my hair shiny and silky like the small photo on the cardboard backing, it gets snarled uselessly and firmly.

I struggle with it for probably ten minutes before I realize: I have so little attachment to my hair, anymore.

If I let go of the weight on my head, will the weight on my heart be let go, too?

You cut my hair hesitantly.

We watch the tangles blow away down the tarmac, and I feel a piece of my hurt go with them, into the night, never to be seen again.

* * *

When Christmas drops by, I am caught off guard.

I hear you bolt to the front door at the sound of a motorcycle, and wonder why.

When I poke my head out, your friend surprises me and sends me back to the that dark hut in the jungle for the shortest moment. I remember him last toting a gun, copious amounts of mud, and camouflage facepaint.

So, for lack of something better, I do what I have seen on television: invite him in, sit him down, and offer him coffee.

You, Barney, are glaring at him like he's broken a promise. Do you not want him here?

As I sneak your stout into a coffee mug, I figure it out. You are worried I will suffer a setback from Christmas' prescence. I steel myself at the thought, because I have not come this far in the few days after my breakdown to throw it all away.

It might be best if he came back another time, though. I am put off by him more than I care to admit. As I help you clean up the mess from the small fire on your workbench, I hint at that.

You take it as an opportunity to test me. In the thick of it all, I manage to put aside my ill associations with Christmas, and even start to like him because he is good to you and kind to me.

The next thing I know, I'm thundering down the tarmas on the back of Christmas, or rather, his Ducati.

Oh. _Oh. _

Now I understand! Now I see why you do this! Elation fills me and I forget I am with Christmas, forget I am scared to death of falling, forget I am still healing, forget _everything_ in the face of the rush.

But Christmas is not the one I want to ride with.

When I shyly ask if I can ride with you, Barney, you get this flush about you that makes myy insides flop.

I fall in love with motorcycles that day, and with my arms wrapped securely around your chest, my head resting on your back over your raven and skull tattoo, I start to feel something of the same for you.

* * *

**Barney, present: **

Later in the week, I get two job offers that change the course of our lives: one via a visit, and the other through a phone call.

I've got the truck up on ramps in the hangar bay, and I'm under it changing the oil. You're there with me. I gave the goggles to you because, knowing your curious cranings, you'd get a faceful of spent oil before I'd have time to warn you.

I'm steadfastly ignoring the way your hair fans out on the ground like a coffee halo, and how geeky-cute you look in the clunky goggles, and how politely patient you are with your ankles crossed and hands folded on your stomach. It's a look I would love to see you sporting with less clothes, and on a much cushier surface...

Dammit. That's my near-constant manatra these days: dammit, Ross. Get your head on straight/mind out of the gutter/priorities aligned/gumption up to just fucking talk to her about it. I've never been one to turn down an opportunity to grow a pair, but talking to you about the attraction that grows between us every day like a weed? Mayday, mayday, mayday.

"I read the manual for the truck," you say while you watch me work the wrench on the bolt. "It told me when and how to change the oil, but not why."

The bolt is fairly stuck. Even with the degree of care I take, she still rusts in some places. "Well," I grunt, my angle awkward because of the drip pan underneath the filter. "It improves mileage, and keeps everything else working better, for good or bad, depending on if you keep it up."

"Like if you stub your toes, it affects your entire body by the way you walk?"

"Yeah, a little like that. Watch out," the bolt comes free, and the filter comes off in my hand, and the thick black substance streams out.

You adjust the pan to catch it more squarely, and we're left to watch the dark fluid fall. "I read about the different kinds of oil. What is the difference?"

I mimic your pose: ankles crossed, hands folded on my stomach, which is still sore from sparring. The smell of your hair and the oil faintly teases my nose like a mechanic's wet dream. "There's a couple of different kinds - "

I stop, hearing something in the distance that makes my hackles raise and eyes narrow. I look out from under the truck, to the hangar entrance.

You see the change and ask concernedly, "What is it?"

I roll out from under the truck, and you are quick to follow. "We aren't expecting visitors in cars."

There's a BMW rolling across the tarmac, headed straight for the hangar.

I turn to you and say in a no-nonsense tone, "Go get the .38, now." I would tell you to go inside and stay there, but whoever is nearing the hangar has already seen you, and you would hate to be coddled.

Your face looks trepeditious as you jog into the living quarters and return a few seconds later as the car rolls to a squeakless stop. You're holding the gun behind your back like your hands are clasped, and the demure look about you is enough for me to almost chuckle at your poker face.

Almost.

The car turns off, and I'm pretty tense: my hand's on my own pistol, ever-present in my waist holster, and I'm hating that I can't see past the window tint.

"Stay sharp. If I tell you to move - "

"I got it," you say evenly. Your eyes are as sharp as mine.

The car door pops open, and out steps Trench Mauser.

Son of a bitch, I think. "Son of a bitch," I say.

"Nice to see you too, Barney," replies the Austrian native. His full height drawn, he slams the car door and takes two steps closer, leaving only two steps more between us.

"Close enough," I growl, hand around the butt of my pistol. "Whatchyou want, coming to my home? Is Austria doing the invading, for once?"

He laughs sarcastically. "Funny guy, Barney. That's why I kill you last."

You stiffen, and your glance to me is furtive.

I'm not terribly worried: he's got no visible weapons. And besides, this sort of word war is our version of...well, I guess you could call it foreplay. It's a measured sort of posturing aggression between two male lions of different prides. Trench's mercenary crew has been my team's only competition for a long time. Sometimes we beat them out of jobs because of experience, other times they underbid us, and still others it's reversed.

"Not likely," I snort. "I say again: whatchyou want, Trench?"

You're reading the dynamics and catching on quickly. I see you marginally relax.

"Bad manners, Barney," chides Trench. He pins you with his best thousand-yard-stare, like he's inspecting your very soul. "You haven't introduced me to your lady friend."

To my pride, you don't flinch. I know what it's like to be under that scrutinizing glare. If my hidden power is my instantaneous Look, Trench's is the longer Stare. You stare back at him like you're eyeing a grenade: acknowledging it's destructive power, but knowing the pin is intact. "My name is Meera," you say clearly, with the barest hint of a throat tweak.

Trench smiles without mirth, and cocks his head at you, then me. "I didn't know you took in strays, Barney! If I see any cats in the alley, I'll be sure to pick them up for you."

"Watch it," I snap, clenching my gun tighter but keeping it holstered. Trench knows I can peck the wings off a butterfly at twenty paces: I can hit him somewhere nonfatal but painful as hell in less time than a blink if he continues to piss me off.

You look mildly insulted, but you know the power of words is minimal. "I would offer to shake your hand," you reply cooly. "But I hate getting dirty."

Trench doesn't miss a beat. "That would require you letting go of the gun you've got."

Your face sours and turns contemptuous. "Maybe you will hear it better in a different voice: what are you doing here?"

He grins at you patronizingly. "Just how old _are _you? Let the grownups talk, little lady."

You lose any chill you had. "Hey, assbutt - !"

I put out the hand that isn't on the butt of my pistol to stop you from taking another step towards him. "Easy," I say softly. To Trench, "Anything you have to say, say it now."

You glower at him like a bobcat in a trap, and put your own pistol by your side.

"Well-trained stray, too, I see," he coos. "I recently bid for a job in the Himilayas and won."

"Whoopty-fucking-doo," I snap.

"That was before I knew of some...extenuating circumstances that prevent me and my crew from carrying it out."

That's a completely new one on me. Since when does Trench Mauser have extenuating circumstances? "Such as...?"

He smiles infuriatingly. "That's for me to know, and you never to find out. My point is, I don't want the job. I've told the biddee as much, and he suggested I find someone who can do it in my place."

"Or, let me guess, he'll stuff your nuts down your throat," I snicker. "You already took his money, attempted the job, and failed, didn't you?"

Trench's face flickers with something so fast, I have to read its wake as worry, if not outright concern. He stiffens his jaw. "I will pay you your normal fee of one-million dollars per member of your crew, if you take this job for me. Are you interested or not?"

"Make it one-point-four mill apiece, and I'll consider it," I rejoin.

He stifles a flinch like a good soldier. "One-point-one."

"One-point-two, not a damn cent less," I counter. You nod firmly in agreement.

He sneers, but we both know that his expenses will be covered with whatever he's taking off the top, plus pocket lining. "Fine. One-point-two."

I extend my hand, not as a peace offering, but as a formality, and he grasps it. We meet eyes like two snakes, and for a split second, try to crush each other's hands.

"Here's how you can get in touch with the biddee," Trench says, tossing me a prepaid cellphone. I glance at the contacts list, and there's only one number. I nod.

"I'll be seeing you never, Ross," says the Austrian, pulling on a pair of shades. "And you, Meera, maybe again."

As one, you and I flip the safeties off our guns with twin clicks.

"I'm going, I'm going," Trench says lazily, getting back into the car. It hums to life, and he leaves a skidmark on my hangar bay floor.

"I really do not like that guy," you mutter, flipping the safety back on and putting the gun in the back of your jeans.

I scoff. "I've worked with him before, and I know his own mama don't like him." I glance sidelong at you. "Assbutt?"

You blush faintly. "It just came out."

"I see." I look back over at the truck. "I think the oil's done draining."

You sigh to let go of the tension and follow me back under the truck.

As I slide the pan aside, I mutter, "You totally could've taken him."

You smile fiercely. "Shit yeah, I could."

"You're on your third curse word already. I'm proud."

"Just show me how to put the filter in, Barney."

* * *

**Okay, shameless plugging of old Arnold, there. For those who need a refresher, Arnold Schwarzenegger plays Trench Mauser in Expendables 1 and 2. In one of his previous movies, he says that line: "You're a funny guy Sully. That's why I kill you last." In real life, Ah-nold is in fact Austrian (that's why he can't run for President: he's not a natural-born USA citizen), and I don't know what nationality he plays Trench as, so I rolled real life into fiction. **

**Yep, bring out all the woodwork characters, here. :)**


	18. Chapter 18

You, Barney, are struck dumb by the quintessential American clothes the raspy-voiced woman at the biker store picked for me. I decide that I like them for that, and because I can trick myself into feeling pretty wearing them. Pretty enough for you to want me? I am not entirely sure I should be trying, or that I want to attract your male eye. Should I? Should I not?

Yet, when Christmas is done inviting us out with the team and I'm hugging you from behind, racing down the road, it hits me. I realize that I'm reveling in the feel of your chest muscles under my interlaced hands, your ribs against the insides of my arms, your strapping back against my cheek and body, your hips nestled against my inner thighs.

I feel a surge of desire that I did not know I could conjure anymore, and it surprises me. It is the first time I have felt stirrings since the horrors of Nepal.

I am thrown off by the realization that I _want _you. Flying down the asphalt, my mind tries to imagine what your body would feel like, skin to skin, against mine.

I am not beyond trying to guess the future: what if we were to fall in love? What if we were to be sexual? Would I be able to handle it, a man inside of me, touching me, claiming me again? Would those awful memories, so carefully packed away, rattle loose and ruin any chance we had?

I hope not. Because if I am honest, I sense our path will take us down those roads sooner than I ever thought possible.

* * *

You pick a senseless fight that allows us both to blow off some steam. I am frustrated that I cannot look at you without feeling tense, the lingering effects of the day before's motorcycle ride, and take the opportunity to throw a few volleys of my own.

I don't know what's irking you, and I cannot summon care. You, quite frankly, piss me off beyond words when you insinuate that I am attracted to Christmas.

Then I realize in a moment of stunning clarity you are simply jealous, and I start to laugh. You join in, and the fight passes.

* * *

As we set up the range for my first lesson in shooting, you feel the urge to confirm that I want to stay with you.

I scoff at the absurdity of the doubt you exhibit. So I tell you with brutal honesty how I feel. You take it so well, I expect that you were thinking exactly the same as me.

I like guns. I like guns _a lot._

You are a patient teacher, and when you correct my stance and your body heat teases my skin, I find it hard to keep my focus. Somehow, despite my mind's wanderings, I manage to drill the stances, holds, postitions and transitions to your satisfaction. That, I consider a minor miracle. If you knew how distracted I was throughout the entire lesson, you would never have let me hold a gun in the first place.

* * *

The next day, I nearly blow your foot off with my first time handling live ammunition.

You explode, and I'm too embarassed to let you ream me without defending myself.

When you tersely ask, I leave you alone, and stalk off to find someplace small, quiet, and as gloomy as my thoughts.

I settle on the cockpit of the Santa plane, because it is the last place you will look, and finally hang my head to cry. I know I messed up. I feel awful I could have hurt you. But did you have to get so angry? Hot tears spill down my cheeks as disappointment wells up inside me.

I thought I had found something I could excell at. Something that would connect us more deeply than the tragedy you are helping me recover from. I wanted there to be something to bind us together other than my hurt.

You find me, and apologize for being so harsh. I can tell you mean it, but I am still sad I lost an opportunity to be your equal at something, to earn your resoect on another level.

When you gather me in your arms for the first time in many days, I am rocked by it. As my bitter emotions subside, I begin to understand: my pain does not tie us together, though it might have at first. Our growing love does.

We eventually let go of each other physically, but somehow, I feel more connected with you than before.

* * *

I am excited to make your friends my friends, and that motivates my boldness. I approach the trio of them at the bar. It is something I would be hard-pressed to belive myself capable of. But then, knowing I am capable of being desirous of a man's body, even after questioning the aftermath my rape left on my body and mind, I feel empowered to test the other things have been holding me back. Maybe I am healing in more ways than what is obvious.

Gunnar is very smart, if slightly unbalanced. You have told me about his previous addictions, but if you were willing to let hiim back onto the team, much less let me be around him, I know I can trust him. I find myself making conversation about topics I cannot carry with you, and it is pleasant to find him knowledgeable. He offers to lend me his previous semesters' text books, and laughs at the unabashed glee I show at the prospect.

Yin Yang still carries the vestiges of cultural differences. I identify easily with him, because we're both judged by our skin, accents, and mannerisms. He is enthused by the topic of martial arts, and we even touch on _The Art of War._ Completely on his own, he solidly offers to teach me how to fight, but stipulates he needs to get your blessing before he does. We both seem to understand that your protectiveness of me makes it easier to have you involved than not.

Toll Road makes me laugh. His cynical attitude and jokingly victimized manner make him easy to tease, and he teases me back. When he tells me the story of his cauliflower ear, Gunnar and Yang roll their eyes and tune out. That makes me more determined to give Toll Road a fully sympathetic ear. Men simply do not see what I do. If a man is telling the same story over and over, he is trying to garner a certain response that will make him feel better about it. By the time Toll is done telling me, my attentive posture and open expression have gained me a new friend.

Tool is kind, but I sense an empty, painful abcess in him that makes me want to hug him. He strikes me as the type of man who does not let anyone hug him, because he does not believe himself worthy of affection, care, or love. It would make sense, then, why you tell me he goes through so many women so quickly. So I give him the only embrace he will accept: I pursue my interest in his art form, the ink he tattoos into skin. He responds well to the language of love he secretly yearns to hear.

Hale Ceasar is hilarious and a steady sort of soul. Even as the tattoo gun stabs him over and over, he does not flinch. When he explains to me how he stands it, that it lets out the nasty darkness in him like acupuncture, it makes such stunning sense to me that I decide to get my own tattoo, someday. He is even bigger than I remember him being when he lifted me into that boat during my rescue. His muscles are huge! I find myself amazed by them, and the testament to the will of the man who wears them, but they do not hold a candle to the way yours make me feel.

Even with Ceasar bare-chested in front of my eyes, my mind wanders back to you, your body covered in water from the shower, or beaded with sweat from exercise, traceable veins and lumps and ropes that draw my eye, and beg for my fingers.

As an experiment, I look at each of the men in turn: Christmas, with his beautiful voice; Gunnar, with his incredible smarts; Yin Yang, with his exotic flair; Toll Road, with his wit; Hale Ceasar, with his impressive physique; Tool, with his raspy woundedness. All of them fit, wonderful specimens of manliness, skill, and experience.

None of them elicit a response from my loins. Not the slightest stirring. And I know in my heart, it is because they are not like you, Barney.

They are not you, at all, so strong and such a powerful leader, so gifted with weapons and experience, so lonely, so aching.

You go outside with Christmas, and I know it is to sort out some of the problems inside of you. I smile faintly, and try an American beer. I hope that Christmas steers you right.

As we are all leaving for home, I make a rash decision that I decide not to regret. I motion Tool down, so that I can whisper in his ear.

"Tool, I need a favor from you."

He nods, both of us feeling your eyes on us like darts.

"When the time comes, and Barney and I find each other, I want to get a tattoo."

"You think so?" he says, leaning back.

I nod. "Not yet, though. Later."

"Later," he agrees. "When the time's right." He is grinning when I walk away, partially because he has been suspicious of Barney and I, and partially because he is excited by the prospect of creating. He really is an artist.

* * *

**Barney, present:**

Trench's visit slowly ebbs away, and our day continues to roll.

Sitting on the couch, I call the single number on the phone Trench gave me, and a man with a Russian accent picks up. "Hoo is zis?"

"Barney Ross," I reply in a business-like tone. "Trench Mauser, our mutual acquiantance, asked me to contact you about the job he can't finish."

"My name iz Dimitri Kresh," says the man, equally professional. "Yes, Mauser was quite a deesappointment. I am eh man of high standing and good money. I expect exceptionality from ze people I employ, and Mauser fayled to provide that. So I cut heem loose." Kresh strikes me as the type who deals with my kind regularly, and he seems to know the rules. How refreshing.

"I see. What's the nature of the job, Mr. Kresh?"

"My only daughter iz a journalist on assignment in ze Himilayas. She iz in contact with several rebel groups from ze surrounding countries that use ze mountains as hiding places and staging areas for raids for zeir myriad causes. She iz intent on telling their story." I sense the disapproval in his tone, even though he is pro enough not to unload it on me. "I need her protected at all costs, including ze high costs of hiring the best mercenary team on ze planet to accompany her. Zat was Mauser. Or, so I t'ought."

"I see," I repeat. It gives me a certain youthful glow to know that my team will succeed where Trench failed. "Can you send me more detailed information?"

"Of course."

"I will text you my email address. It's completely secure, as is the number it comes from. Now, I am under the impression you already paid Mauser, and that he's the one paying me and my team, if we accept this job, right?" If Mr. Kresh can intimidate Mauser, I know he's powerful. If my team and I can pull this off, we can usurp Mauser permanently for top dog.

"Correct," replies the Russian with an edge of displeasure. "What met'ods I use to encourage him to pay are mine alone to know, but trust me, he will give you your money. Are you going to ach-cept, or not?" he asks factually.

"It depends on what my men say," I reply, tapping out the text on my personal number. I prefer to have all my information coming and going from one device, which I know to be safe. It's easier to keep track of, as well.

The Russian scoffs a bit. "You Americans and your democracy." It almost sounds like he's joking with me.

I surprise myself by being culturally sensitive to the obviously born and raised socialist, even though I want to tell him that America's not the socio-economically depressed country in this equation. "Yeah, we're an odd bunch. You should be getting the number now."

"And you can expect a dossier to take to your team wizeen three hours, Mr. Ross. It was a pleasure talking business with you."

I hang up, and look over the top of the couch at you when I hear your rhythmic huffing. The sight of you, sweaty and intense, brings me out of the concentrated state I get into when dealing with clients. You're incredibly sexy when you're punching things, and it soothes my mind even while it enflames my heart to watch you. You don't pause your half-speed practice rendition of Yang's teachings to look my way. Your stamina has improved: you've been at it for close to two hours, slowly erasing the tense encounter with Trench with the burn of muscles and blood.

I smile, and stare at you unnoticed for probably ten minutes, drinking in your smooth muscles wired with a few prominent veins, staccatto breath, damp hair on your neck, and the lovely way you move. God, the way you move: given an opportunity to watch without worrying about you catching me, I can feel my desire for you growing. Despite all the angst I have about confessing my feelings for you, I need to surrender to them sometimes and just let the emotions run free.

You finish the session with a cleansing breath just like Yang explained to you: reaching up as high as you can, then lowering your palms to hip-level like you're pushing the energy generated back into the energy sea in your stomach. "Who was that?" you ask, brushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear.

I snap out of my trance. "The guy Trench pawned off on us, name of Kresh."

"How is this Kresh taking it?"

"As well as can be expected. He's pissed at Trench, and probably looking for an opportunity to bust a couple of elbows for a job suckily done. That means that Trench is going to pay us without complaining, althoug he's taking a cut off the top to pay for his expenses."

"Won't that make Kresh more angry with Mauser?" you ask, grabbing a water from the fridge. "Beer?"

"Sure."

You grab the drink and plop down next to me on the couch.

"Doubtful that Kresh'll be angry," I reply, the smell of your sweat making me zone out for a moment. God, even your sweat smells like heaven. The bite of the beer cap into my palm helps distract me. "Kresh is a businessman who expects Mauser to cover his costs like plane fuel, guns, time, effort and stuff." I explain the nuts and bolts of the job as I understand them, and you listen intently. Your water is nearly empty by the time I'm done.

"Let me see if I can boil it down," you say, scratching your head. "Mauser takes Kresh's money for a job, and fails. Mauser tells him to find someone who can pick up where he left off, and makes him pay for it using the money Kresh gave him because Mauser did not use all of it in his attempt. This leaves Mauser room to cover his expenses, Kresh with a viable alternative for his needs, and Mauser with a suitable hit to his pride that Kresh feels no need to punish him for failure."

"Pretty much," I say, finishing my beer.

"Is failure at jobs common for mercenaries, Barney?"

"No. Very rare."

"Then why did Mauser, your biggest rival, run into problems so severe he had to quit?"

There's something I haven't considered yet: what was so hard about protecting one woman that Trench threw in the towel? "I don't know," I admit. "But we're the better team, you can bet your ass. We'll do it, and do it right."

You grin at my boasting. "No doubt." You sip the water and frown, propping your elbow on the back of the couch and cradling your head in your palm. "It is so complicated," you marvel. "How do you do it, Barney?"

I shrug, trying not to focus on the sound of my name on your lips. "It's how I make my money, honey."

The sentiment makes you smile. We're quiet long enough for some worry to seep in. "How long do you think you'll be gone?" you ask quietly.

"I'll have the answer to that by tonight, when I meet with the team and discuss it. I want you there to hear everything, so you know what's going on."

You look at me gratefully. "I would like that."

I call the guys and arrange for them all to meet at the hangar after dark to discuss Trench's offer. There are grumbles from Gunnar, who is trying to study for midterms, and Christmas, who sounds pleasantly occupied with Lacy if his tone is any indicator, but they all agree.

* * *

Only a little later, I get an unexpected phone call on my cell.

I pick up the phone, but the number is all X's across the screen. Indicator number one that this isn't one of my usual callers. Frowning, I answer. "Barney Ross."

"Hello, Ross," says a voice like Satan's doorman. "It's Church. You remember me?"

My fingers tighten on the phone. Church is the CIA scum-in-a-suit that forced us into a job in Albania not too long ago. That job deteriorated into a shitstorm that cost Billy the Kid his life. "Yeah, I remember you," I growl, stepping outside. "Why are you calling me? Wouldn't getting another one of my men killed and pinning a note to his chest do the job?"

He laughs like he's just broken somebody's fingers and liked it. "Sometimes. But you respond well to other methods. Shame I can't make it there to talk in person, Barney, but extenuating circumstances keep us apart."

There's those words again: extenuating circumstances. The connection is small between Church and Trench, but I smell something there..."For the best, really,' I reply, matching his falsely light tone. "I'm still itching to turn you into a cheese grater."

"Temper, Barney," he says, smooth as poison. "Is that any way to talk to an old friend with a propostion?"

"You are not my friend," I reply coldly. "What sort of proposition?" I continue cautiously. "Must be good, if you're calling me and not shooting an arrow scroll into my ass."

"You always were a creative sado-masochist, Barney, I'll hand you that," he chuckles. "It's what makes you one of the best."

"You didn't call me to complement my skills," I remind him testily.

"No. I called to offer you a job."

"Like you offered the last one?" I sneer. That bowie knife disappearing into Billy's chest flashes through my mind.

"If it were up to me, yes. However, that's not the case."

So even Church answers to someone? Nice to know...

"I know Trench Mauser has offered you a job he can't complete," continues Church.

Shit, he's smart. And way too well-informed for my liking. "That he has," I confirm. "I plan on accepting it, if my crew does."

"I want you to take my job, instead."

I'm getting confused now. "Why do you want me to take your job instead of Trench's?"

"I'm sending you an email now. Open it," says the CIA operative.

I have no choice but to walk back into the living space and grab my laptop. You're still in the shower, faintly humming some Bon Jovi song. I open the computer, warm boot it, and open the email.

"Reading yet? Or do you need me to sound out the words?"

"Bite me, Church," I reply absently. As I read through the details of the job, I can't give him a proper insult. I scroll and read, scroll and read. "Church, this is the exact opposite of what Trench has recruited me for. You want me to_ kill_ Miss Kresh."

"Yes. So, you see my predicament."

I'm seriously stumped. "I see it. Tell me why I should care?"

"I'll pay you whatever Trench is offering, and a hundred-thousand per Chip 'n' Dale besides."

I'm silent, mulling it over, trying to find a way out of this that will be best for me and my team.

"Ross? I'm waiting."

"You can keep waiting," I snap. "A hundred-thousand more isn't going to make me terminate a job that's practically closed. You're too late to the party."

"Barney," Church says patronizingly. "Need I remind you, you're a mercenary. You are in it for money. I'm offering you more than Trench, with basically the same job parameters, and less effort."

"It doesn't matter," I respond angrily, leaning forward on the couch. "I will not work for you, forced or otherwise, ever again."

"Is that so?" he asks silkily.

"Yeah, you sack of murdering shit. No more. I'm done."

Suddenly, you appear at the head of the hall, wrapped in a towel, dripping on the cement floor. "Barney, is there any more soap in storage?" Then, you notice me on the phone. Your eyes widen at the sudden look of horror I show, and you clap your hands over your mouth.

My face has gone pale. My ears are waiting for Church's response, because he obviously heard you.

"Now," he starts, soft as falling snow. "Who might that be, Barney?"

"None of your business," I snarl. Oh, fuck, this is bad.

"You take care now, Barney. You and your girlfriend." The line goes dead.

I drop the phone onto my lap, eyes fixed and body slack.

"Barney," you ask quietly, terrified because I've never been so affected in your presence. "Who was that?"

"That was a man named Church," I reply hoarsely. "I just burned a bridge with him. And now he knows I have a weakness."


	19. Chapter 19

**Meera:**

You do not argue with me when I ask to drop long guns for a while, and I am grateful. We continue to work through different calibers.

I call you a blessing, and my heart echoes the words. You reply with the same, and I know you mean it.

The Desert Eagle nearly breaks my nose, again.

The pain is sudden and shocking, but easily overcome. When I figure out where I am, you're blocking the sun on my face and cradling my head, urgently trying to get me to answer you.

The panic in your eyes warms me, though I cannot show it for the stinging pain. You are acting like I've been shot, not bonked on the nose. You really shouldn't worry so much, Barney. I am far, far stronger than you give me credit for.

Well, at least when it comes to physical pain. When it comes to you, and our mutually growing feelings, I get a little shakier.

You tend my injury with ice and sympathy, and close down the range for the day.

We're relaxing in the afternoon hours when I realize i have been reading the same page of _The Complete Guide To Edible Plants _for the past half-hour.

"Barney?" I sigh with defeat.

"Hm?"

"I have unfinished business with that gun."

You are wound around me, supplementing my stance and strength, and I am trying very hard to ignore the sweet heat that builds inside me as you murmur in my ear, "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Then aim...and fire."

The gun bucks much less this time, and I can feel the energy travel through my body into yours. I am pushed back by it, and my body contacts yours from shoulder to hip. My skin sings.

I worm out of your grasp quickly, before i do something rash, and inspect my target joyfully. I am victorious over the Desert Eagle, but am being beaten into submission by my own body and heart's response to you.

I turn around, and you're standing there proudly, watching me with tender and affectionate brown eyes. My insides melt.

I had told Tool that I would get a tattoo when you and I found each other.

That might happen sooner than I thought.

* * *

When we run out of MREs, we hop in the truck for a long ride to replenish them.

You turn off the radio and ask me what my last name is.

The question does not disturb me. I know who I am not, and who I am. I am not the victim of a heinous crime, so much as I am a victor over it. I am not stuck wondering how to put the pieces of my soul back together: I am ignoring all but the basic structure, and arranging the rest as I please. I am your companion, friend, confidant, and maybe, one day, your lover.

"Ross," I answer you easily.

You flounder a bit, but eventually hop on board. I can tell my answer pleases you, deep down. But I am not telling you to please you: I am showing you how close I am, and how close I still want to be. Changing my last name means I am changing me. I am not the village foot magnet, or a shame to my grandmother, or a sad parody of a good, coffee-skinned Nepali young woman who gets married early and childbears her life away.

I am Meera. And I am entirely new.

* * *

January, or Airy, as you call her, is a woman that shares a bond with you going back further than mine. I struggle to tamp down my jealousy and still sate my curiousity at the same time.

The warehouse astounds me, but so far since taking up residency in America, I am getting used to it.

Memories surface strongly of my grandmother's cooking when I read the packages of food. When I find one that is Thai, I am sold. You acquiesce with little fight.

I try to maintain some degree of aloofness towards January, but I find it more trouble than it is worth. She is charismatic, charming, and lesbian. I am fascinated by the difference in the culture here and the one I grew up in. In Nepal, a lesbian would probably have been killed if found out, and if not, forced to marry a man. Here, a woman who would have been ostracized in my culture holds a position of power over men her senior and/or her physical better, and they bow to her will. I am intrigued by the idea. By the end of the visit, she and I are well on our way to being friends.

As we walk back to the office, answering January's summons, I thread my arm in yours as an experiement. It is the first time I have initiated longterm contact, without the premise of needing your aid, comfort, or steadying.

You stiffen ever so slightly, but then start to glow like you're the biggest man in the warehouse. In fact, your posture and walk change to more of a swagger.

I grin secretly. My experiment was a success.

I feel so incredibly happy hanging on your arm. I feel safe, pretty for some reason, wanted, needed. I feel proud to be attached to such a man as you.

It comes to my attention, as slowly and unobtrusively as smoke on the breeze, that I would not mind feeling this way for the rest of my life. I would not mind being attached to you, at all.

The rest of the day, I slowly consolidate all of my little revelations into one place. One, I care for you deeply, Barney. You are kind, and protective, and generous, and much more affectionate than your gruff exterior would suggest.

Two, my body is drawn to yours. It is hard, these days, not to react to even the brush of your hand, or a smile, or the unintentional seductions of your embrace of me, or my hugging of you as we ride. You, covered in sweat from exertion or exercise, or in water from the shower as you amble past me to the closet, makes me heat up most pleasantly. Yes, my ache is fierce and poingnant for you.

Three, I want you to be mine. Here is where it gets tricky. Is forever too much to want, or to even hope for? You are a mercenary, a trained killer. You do not make bonds so deep that they will destroy you at their breaking. Even your men, truth be told, are separated from you and each other just enough to survive it when one of them dies. Because die you all will, one day.

And three-point-one, do I want to ally myself with that? Would I be able to be as close as humanly possible to you, and still live on if you came back from a job in a coffin? Or knowing that you walk into danger every time you take a mission?

These questions, and endless more, circle my skull in the dead of the night. I turn over in bed, and regard the form of you under the covers. Your tattooed shoulders are bare to the lantern's tiny light, and the muscles under them remain prominent even in slumber. It is the same back that bore my weight when I was unable to walk. Those arms carried me without tire. Those hands changed my bandages, and held me close when I cried for hours, and coaxed me back to life with activity and purpose. That chest wash my pillow the night I broke and began to heal. Those legs rushed to my side over and over when I needed you. Those eyes watched me, even when you thought I did not notice, and warmed when you laughed, spoke, and smiled with me. And that beautiful heart let me, a veritable time bomb, take up residence with no fight whatsoever. The easiest and only surrender you have ever allowed yourself.

I love you, Barney Ross.

I love you.

* * *

**Okay, here ends the retrospective POV for Meera. From now on, she will be telling her story as it happens, same as Barney. Ya'll had better hold on tight, because things heat up in a lot of ways in the next chapters...**


	20. Chapter 20

There is a turmoil evident in each of us for different reasons as we stare at the phone I have dropped. "Sorry I interrupted," you say. You are worried you messed up something, and misread my expression to fit your concern.

"It's okay," I reply automatically, getting a hold on my horrified face. Your nonchalance indicates you don't understand the gravity of what just happened, having only seen my side of it. Small mercies, I guess. Maybe I can spare you the sudden fear in my gut, if I play this right.

You hitch the towel higher and stutter-step towards me with booted feet to keep your soles clean. "Who is Church?"

"A CIA operative," I manage to steady my voice. "The one who forced us to do the Albanian job in the past."

"The one with Billy," you say softly as you recall the story, sitting down next to me on the couch. Your short hair is damp tendrils sticking to your shoulders.

"Yeah. He's a bad guy. And now he knows I have a ...woman friend."

"So I _did_ interrupt."

"No, no, it's just...not something I want getting around," I dismiss. "I piss a lot of people off, and you...well, you could be used against me." Half-truth, but not quite enough to get you off the subject.

"Did he hear me?" you demand.

"No, it's okay," I lie smoothly, if guiltily. "He just made a pass at me about inviting hookers to use the shower."

You pin me with a pointed look that says you don't buy it. "He did hear me," you surmise. "And he thinks I'm your girlfriend," you observe, more to yourself than to me. Your use of the term makes me suppress a flinch. I'd take 'girlfriend' over 'friend', 'roommate', or 'unrequited' any day.

"You burned a bridge? How so?"

Shit, you're like a dog with a bone. "He asked me for something, and I cut him off," I say. Another half-truth.

"I see," you say contemplatively. You seem to be easing off, thank God. I thought you were going to interrogate it out of me.

It finally hits me like a cosmic spanking that you're in a towel, and less than three feet from me. The edge of the towel comes to mid-thigh on you, and a few inches under your collarbone. There's one woolen layer between me and your warm, clean, wet body. I try not to get focused on the swell of your curves beneath the fabric.

You didn't hear what Church said, or his inflection when he said it. I can keep you safe from worry if I move this along. "I'll get some soap from storage. You go finish your shower." I don't know what makes me come to that decision, but you do not argue the logistics of privacy.

We part and head opposite ways down the hall. I dig out the olive green bar and carry it to the showers, my heart starting to thud a little harder. What have I done, lying to you so deeply? How will I keep yet another secret from you? What will I see from this side of the shower curtain?

The translucent curtain hides everything but your outline and your skin tone, and I pause to watch you tilt back your head of shampoo to rinse it out. White suds skid across the blur of your body like clouds streaking over a tawny sky. I heart changes from thudding to momentary skipping, like a record in an earthquake.

"Soap," I announce myself.

You stick out a dripping hand, and my fingers linger over yours and the bar. I can't see your face, hidden by the curtain, and you can't see mine, either. Such an impersonal interaction leaves room for fantasy, the thrill of having a faceless lover. You withdraw, and I have to leave or risk exposure. This hiding is wearing thin. A braver man would have - what? Stayed, stripped, and slipped under the stream with you? Leaned against the sink, waited for the water to turn off, and held out your towel? Offered to scrub your back? All things I want to do, but until I know where you stand, I can't risk it.

Visions of your blurred outline and Church's voice haunt me like ghosts. I am caught between the uncertainty of Church's veiled threat, and the absurd amount of desire I feel for you.

* * *

The guys all come over as planned, roaring up in pairs or singularly, with Christmas being last.

"Well if it ain't the Hogwarts Express, late as hell," crows Ceasar.

"Kiss my ass, Black Dynamite," replies Christmas without venom. Race could only be tossed around in a group as tight as ours.

"So we're all here, finally," I start, muttering the last part as a polite, greeting-esque jab to Lee. He settles himself leaning against his locker and bids me continue with a flourish of his hand. I regard all of them: perched on their bikes in the hangar, leaning or sitting on cargo boxes. You're sitting on the stairs to the plane, elbows on your knees, and I'm standing next to you. We haven't spoken much since Church's call, each wrapped up in our own secret worries and cares. "We've had a job offer," I announce.

"Sweet!"

"'Bout damn time."

"Details, fearless leader."

This feels great, being_ on_ something, being active, being outside of my own swirling head. My team is frosty and raring to go. And you, even though there is trepidation in your eyes, are looking up at me trustingly and game-faced. You're ready, I'm ready. It's time to do this.

I mentally slap down the echo of Church's last words in my head: _You take care now, Barney. You and your girlfriend..._

"Mr. Dimitri Kresh, a Russian national," I begin, opening my laptop and the dossier in my email. "Needs professionals to escort his journalist daughter around the Himilayas. She is actively seeking the multiple rebel factions that use the mountains as staging grounds. From the info, I can only guess some of those factions are more friendly than others to an entitled white Russian woman asking questions about their causes and tripping around their caves."

The men snicker.

"Who is this Kresh guy?" queries Ceasar suspiciously. "We've been burned by mystery clients before."

I shrug. "As far as I know, that's his real name. I haven't done the research on him, yet. From what I can glean in the dossier, he's a businessman."

"What're we looking at for transport?" asks Christmas.

I scroll down. "We'll be on foot, mostly. We'll take the plane to the pickup point in Russia and be backpacking into the mountains with Miss Kresh."

"Nothing like carrying a third of your body weight in a deprived-oxygen environment," mutters Toll Road.

"We'll have a few days of conditioning in the foothills before Miss Kresh takes us higher," I reply, scrolling down to double-check the intinerary. "She's got scheduled meetings with several rebel groups, and she's been gaining their trust and setting up the meets for a few weeks."

"Last I looked at a world map, Russia is a haul from the Himilayas," comments Gunnar.

"We're acquiring Miss Kresh at the border of Russia and China, then skimming the thinner mountains all the way to the main range," I clarify. I spread out a world map and trace our route. "Like I said, we'll have a few days to get conditioned."

"How long is the job?" asks Christmas.

He asked the one question I was dreading to answer. I glance at you again. "About three weeks." You look down at your boots, letting it sink in. I wish I could put a hand on your bony back to comfort you, but this is not the time or place.

Ceasar shrugs. "We've had longer."

"What's the price tag?" asks Gunnar.

"Same as always."

"What about - " starts Yang. Oh, hell, he's going to start down the yellow-man-with-a-family road.

As one, the team shouts him down: "NO!"

He folds his arms indignantly. "I was going to say, you rude bastards, I sense a catch."

"Yeah, I feel a 'but' coming on," agrees Toll Road.

"Spill it, Barney," urges Christmas, starting to flip a knife end over end in his hand, a nervous habit.

"Nothing gets past you guys, huh?" I snort. With a glance to you for strength, I continue, "Trench Mauser already failed this job. Kresh is making him pay for us to clean up his mess."

The hangar is silent as a tomb while the men mull this over.

Ceasar whistles lowly. "That's..."

"Man," murmurs Yang, shifting positions.

"How is he twisting Trench's arm?" asks Christmas, the knife stopping its acrobatics. "The guy may be a prick, but he bows to no one."

"Asked the same question to Kresh, got nada," I say. "Must be good. Maybe video of him doing Zumba or some shit, because we know he's a rainbow."

The guys burst into laughter and jeers at that. There's no love lost from you, either, and you seem to revel in the opportunity to shake some tension.

"But why'd Trench fail?" continues Christmas, unwilling to let it go.

"I don't know why, and the dossier doesn't say," I reply, hating the excuses even though they are good ones. I straighten and look each of them in the eye, one by one. Time to earn my cut. "I know we can do this job. The intel says it's simple money. I'm sending the doss to each of you to look over, but I need a definite answer by tomorrow evening at the latest to take back to Kresh."

The men nod. They trust me.

"One question," asks Gunnar. "Is the daughter pretty?"

We laugh. There are a few more questions about logistics: where we'll be landing the plane, how we will approach the rebel factions with our client, what mindset we will assume (defensive, offensive, or subjective), what our backup plan is if we need to exfiltrate in one, six, or twelve hours, and much more.

You listen attentively, but do not interject your opinion. This is the work of a mercenary, and you are tasting it for the first time. The brightness of your eyes suggests fascination and thrill at being able to take it in, like it's the workings of a secret society. You probably wish you had something to take notes with or some shit, you little sponge.

While Ceasar and Yang duke it out with their respective opinions about what weapons would work best in the cold, wet, and windy climate, I study you as you watch them bicker fondly. They're quickly becoming your friends, too, if they aren't already. You catch me looking, and smile, but I can see the connotations in the expression. You want to talk to me. Something is weighing on your mind. Glad to know we're on the same wavelength: I need to talk to you, too.

You lean in to say, "Are you going to tell them about Church?"

I consider it. Should I complicate things? "There's something else, guys," I start, silencing the debate. They deserve to know. "Church made himself known today, and offered us a job, too. A paying job."

"I assume you turned him down like my drunk grandma," says Christmas hotly.

"There's a first," snarks Yang. "What'd the bastard want us to do?"

"Damn right, I turned him down," I reply. "We're not going through that goat rodeo again, trust me. He wanted us to play the opposite side of Kresh."

"He wanted us to kill Miss Kresh?" asks Gunnar with a frown. "That doesn't make any sense. What has he got to gain from that?"

"Or the CIA, for that matter," agrees Ceasar, mirroring Gunnar's frown.

"It's a mystery, for sure," I say, reluctant to move the conversation along. I have a nagging feeling I'm missing something, like one hip holster is empty and I'm off balance. "And one that concerns us little, if any. Our job, if we accept, is to protect Miss Kresh from anyone who seeks to harm her, including the CIA."

Toll Road nods, but rubs his chin. "Still, it makes me wonder."

We round out the conversations and debates within an hour and the men split. You rise as the last taillight receeds into darkness, and stretch your body until it is one long, lean line from toes to fingertips. "What a day," you sigh.

I blink out of my trance at the sliver of midriff you flashed, and agree, "Yeah. I got a couple of things to talk to you about, too. Wanna go inside?"

You nod, itching to say what was on your mind during the intel meeting.

We walk inside, and I grab a beer for me and a Blenheim Ginger Ale for you out of the fridge. You told me the non-carbonated folk version of Blenheim was a Nepalese thing. You tried the stuff when Toll Road suggested it, and have loved it ever since. I don't see how: it has more bite to it than any alcohol I've ever had. But then, you prefer the pink cap, the hottest stuff. You settle on your favorite barstool, at the end of the bar.

You raise your bottle and tilt it with a clink against mine. After a careful swig, you break the silence. "Barney, I am not as naive as you like to think," you start with gentle insistence. "Church threatened me, didn't he?"

I lean against the sink and sigh. Damn, you guessed what I had planned to keep from even the team. "How'd you know?"

You smile in a way that doesn't reach your eyes. "It is written on your face. And in your shoulders."

"Shoulders?'' I echo.

"You are tenser when something is on your mind."

So much for years honing a poker face. I've bluffed my way through countless guns aimed at my balls, and you manage to pick me apart in ten seconds. "He implied a threat," I conceed. "But he's smart enough not to make one outright."

You nod, burdened by the necessary acceptance. "So he _might _try something while you're gone, or he might not."

"Pretty much, yeah." I hate the unknown as much as you. I can tell it wears on you. "And there's no guarantee I'm even going anywhere," I reason futilely.

That wrings a wry smile out of you. "You heard your team in there. It is almost a done deal." You fall into silence again, and pick the wrapper off your bottle with a thumbnail. After a while of me sipping and waiting and you gathering your thoughts, you say, "I guess I'm a little afraid, honestly."

"Afraid of Church?" I ask. "Because I can put a hit out on him. I'm a badass that way."

You snort and shake your head at my bravado. "Afraid of Church some, but not as much as you think," you say, astutely reading my creased brow. What are you, a damn mentalist? "Church is just one man," you continue. "And from what you told me, he sounds like he's occupied with something."

You picked up on what's been tapping on my shoulder since Church's call. "You're right. He is busy with something. He said he had 'extenuating circumstances' that kept him from offering the job in person. That's not his style, unless something has his attention."

"It could be he is setting up to carry out the killing of Miss Kresh, despite you."

My face darkens. "I'd like to see him try."

You tick a brow. "So would I."

I rest my hand on the counter, and look at you unhappily. "I'm sorry I kept this from you. You know I just wanted to protect you from something so up in the air, right? Not let you worry senselessly?"

You nod, not holding it against me, bless you. "I know. I would do the same. But it is not enough to make you stay, is it?"

The elephant that has been tiptoeing around the room for nearly two months has decided to trumpet. "No, it's not," I say. "I have to earn a living. You get that, right?"

You duck your head and nod, but displeasure still radiates from your tense neck and shoulders.

"Hey," I get your attention softly. "What's really bugging you?"

You shrug, and bite your lip. "It's stupid."

"Not if it bothers you. Spill it, missy."

The corner of your mouth twitches as the sentiment. "I guess I am afraid of you getting hurt. Or worse."

I put down the beer bottle and scratch my beard stubble, considering how to best answer you. "My job ain't holiday sales at Macy's, Meera. I carry a gun. To use against other people with guns. It was dangerous long before I met you."

"But now I know you!" you outburst, meeting my eyes with a fierce desperation to make me understand. "And I care what happens to you, Barney. Even if you don't."

We're quiet for a few moments in the wake of your words. The place is silent, save for the ticking of some fans and a clock somewhere. It's dark outside now, and the waning moon begs entrance to the windows, spreading faint silver pools across the floor and abandoned furniture. You're hunched over your now-empty bottle, hiding your face with a hand cradling your forehead. I'm struck by the passion in your exclaimation: I can feel the power of it like heat from a blaze roaring just feet away. You care that much? I don't think anyone ever has. You worry about my safety as much as I worry about yours?

"I care about you, Barney," you whisper. A tear plinks on the glass bottle.

"Meera," I chide softly, walking over. "Don't cry. It's not worth that."

You laugh-sniffle. "Why do you say that? You are worth crying over, you know."

I'm at a loss for words. You're scared that you'll be left without me. I get that all too well: I know what it would mean if I was left without you.

It means I love you.

So, following logic, what does that make me to you?

"Shh," I shush. I step behind you and rub your upper arms soothingly. "Don't cry," I say again.

Your fingers stifle the movements of my left hand, and you coax my hand into interlacing with yours. There I stand, one hand captured. I wrap the other around you, and pull your back to my chest, balancing my chin on your shoulder. You tip your head until your eyes are buried in my hair, and try to pull yourself together. We stay tangled until my hair is wet from your warm tears.

"Meera," I murmur, untangling from all but your hand. I move to the side so that our mutual hold makes you rotate on the stool until you face me. I thumb a wayward tear from your cheek, and my palm stays cupped around your jaw. Your big brown eyes search mine for the rest of my words, but they are fast running dry.

"I have to tell you something," I begin, looking for your urge to continue.

"What?" you breathe, focusing on me.

"I care about you, too," I say. But having a bolt pop loose on the dam with those simple words makes the whole thing buckle and groan and creak. Leaving it at that would be a cop-out of epic proportions. I've come this far. I shouldn't, can't, won't back down. "More than care," I continue, hastily garnering my wits. "Meera, I - "

You shock me like a bucket of icy water.

There's a microexpression I have no time to read, a shift in your seat, and then your lips are crashing on mine.

* * *

I wake up with a gasp like a drowning man breaking the surface. The scratchy, pilled texture of the couch throws me for a moment, and the dark room does little to help. Was I just kissing...?

I figure out where I am, and try to steady my pounding heart. Did that really happen? No, but I wish with my entire being it had. Swinging my legs off the couch, my foot hits something that falls with a _clink. _I feel for it. A beer bottle. Five, in fact.

My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and I can make out the oscilating fans and the lump in your bed. Scrubbing my face, I happen to touch my lips and the dream comes rushing back.

God, that felt so _real. _I'm bitterly disappointed that it wasn't, and it wells up inside me acidicly.

I look to your sleeping form again. I can feel the job looming over me, like a personal thundercloud ready to crack lightning over my head.

I have got to tell you, before I go on this job.

I need answers, or I might not get another chance.

The question now is: when?


	21. The Kiss

By the time we wake up the next morning, with me still on the couch, I have five email replies in my inbox. All the men have voted on the Kresh job.

_Yes, _say Gunnar and Yang.

_Let's do it, _say Christmas, Toll and Ceasar.

Our fate is decided.

Over coffee, and trying to ignore your severe lack of eye contact, I call Kresh and confirm our employment. He is pleased, and asks us to be on the Russia/Himilaya border town of Bromia in 36 hours. It's a ten hour flight in Santa the PBY, so you and I have around 24 hours.

You can all but guess how I feel about you. I can all but suppose how you feel about me. We have 36 hours to either lay it down, or let the apathetic, sucking void of time steal whatever has grown between us. Three weeks would do it, too. Rob us of everything so carefully built.

Our time clock clicks, and starts to count down like a bomb.

I surmise through various small clues where our conversation last night ended, and my dream began. We did talk about Church. We didn't say we cared about each other. I want to rip out my hair. That boldness was a fake?! I still feel impressed with my dream-self's balls. He's a ballsier man than me, I think.

Nonetheless: you got ready to sleep, and I stayed up nursing a six-pack, and passed out. No revelations, no kiss. _Your lips on mine..._

Our last day together goes by in a blur, slipping through my hands like blood from a wound that I can't staunch. I piddle around in productive wastefulness, gathering my gear, cleaning my equipment, calm except for the nagging need to make the previous night's dream a reality. _Your lips on mine..._

You take your role in cleaning the guns up a notch, doing it all yourself, and you seem intent on doing your level best to make them like mirrors inside and out. After reminding me you have read every backpacking and army manual I own, you take it upon yourself to fold and roll my clothes and winter gear for optimal space usage. The bulky materials fight against you, but you prevail with iron will and rubber bands. Your one-track mind seems a byproduct of nervousness. I have read stories about how, in World War II, Japanese women would sew by hand thousand-stitch belts for their soldier sons, each stitch from a different woman. The belts were amulets: a way to keep their sons safe by carrying the blessings and prayers of their crafters. The intensity of the making was a dispelling of ills. I guess the principle holds true for you, too.

Like a child's stuffed animal, I haul around and sip the same beer all day, too distracted with preparations and my thoughts to drink at my usual pace. The last swallows have gone flat by the time I get to them. I'm running out of time. I'm running out of _time_...

We're mostly quiet, because there is little to say about the pain of being separated and even less to say about how we feel about it. It would be like asking the sky to turn purple to request you lay down your cards before me. Hey, Meera, how do you feel about me? Yeah, right. I don't need to ask: I can see your cards every time you meet my eyes, or I feel your gaze on my turned back. Truthfully, I've been seeing them for a while now. With every furtive glance, you project the sense our time is running thin. You are probably wondering what I'm going to do about it.

"You're gonna carry your gun at all times," I say, having broached the subject of Church again, desperate to relieve the tension. "Even when you sleep."

You stop winding paracord to look at me with strength in the face of adversity. "I will. I'll be safe, Barney. I promise."

"If something happened to you, Meera..." I trail off, the dream from last night surfacing strongly. _Your lips on mine... _

You appear in front of me, and lay a cool hand on my crossed arms. "I'll be here when you get back," you say softly, eyes gently coaxing me out of my worry.

I have to take your word for it, because I sure as hell won't be here to ensure it. I nod and crush the rise of the dream again.

With the pact made, Church and his bullshit take a backseat.

We stop to watch the 5 o'clock news when I realize I've had just about enough.

"Hey," I say, catching your attention. "Wanna go for a ride?"

You smile, soft and a little sad. "Yeah."

In minutes, we are clad in leather and donning helmets. The bike responds like thunder, and you slide with heavy desperation to _go, leave, fly _into place behind me. You are sitting closer by a few inches, all the better to wrap your arms around me further. Your fingers are laced as we shake the hangar on the way out.

The team and I will be departing in the morning, so it is nightfall as I point the wheel towards the bay. This is the best time of day: the sun brushes the swirled clouds with striating colors, ranging from pink to lavender to orange and gold. As I settle upon the well-trodden route that hugs the body of water, the day's last hurrah sparkles across the surface like nature's discoball.

There's a certain pressure between us. I don't even have to see your face to know you're depressed and anxious: I can feel it in the way you are trying to merge yourself to my back through the layers of leather and cloth. I wish I could carry you around with me, in my pocket, to take out when I need a fix, or like a Camelback, to sip as needed. But you're only so portable, and I wouldn't put you between me and a bullet in the back in a million years.

So we ride. We ride past the setting of the sun. We glimpse the green flash as the burning orb is extinguished into the next timezone. We ride past and through towns: past and through the cycles of despondency. We try to outrace the coming day, chasing that sun, because even the futility of the exercise is enough. You hold me tight enough to hinder my breath, just a little. I relish it. The vibration of the bike rattles loose our individual worries and fears, the secret and the known. We try to outrun our plagues.

Finally, I can't pretend to beat the clock anymore. I slow and pull us off the side of the road, to an overlook that shows the glow of the city against the ghostly clouds. You swing off, and unbuckle your helmet. "That sunset was beautiful," you say, walking to the rocky edge.

I kickstand the bike and dismount. "Beautiful," I agree. Not nearly so beautiful as you, framed by the lights on the ocean, your countenance whipped by salt air and ambitious mist. I join you to take in the view, from the distant red-green lights on the wings of a plane to the streams of car lights that move like platelets in the city's bloodstream. "You know," I say after a minute. "We'll be seeing the same sun. And the same moon, and stars."

You look at me with a teasing smile. "That was more romantic than I gave you credit for, Barney."

"I'm full of surprises," I reply. But my gut, from the place that tells me if I'm being watched, or if someone is telling the truth, is urging me to press my advantage.

This is as good a place as any. This is as best a time as I will have. This is the moment, my moment, our moment, to put this to rest. I am a man in love. In a split second, like my life passing before my eyes, I picture every wrong thing that could happen. I see your look of betrayal, of mistrust, of hurt. I see you turn and walk away, never to return, leaving me in an empty home with two beds, a second divot in the couch, two bowls in the sink, and two toothbrushes in the bathroom.

Then, I see everything that I might possibly gain from a leap of faith.

I see your eyes shining with love, unveiled from the shyness and hiding of our little game. I see you flushed with arousal as I kiss you, down your neck, between your breasts, around your bellybutton. I see you laughing unabashedly as I lift your toes to my lips. I see you melting into my neckrub after a long combat practice. I see your lovely soul, branded as mine, glowing radiantly from across a crowded room just for me. I see you relaxing against my inner thighs with a book, watching the sun set from the truck bed. I see days of peace and happiness. I see you getting dressed in my presence, and throwing a coy smile at me over your bare shoulder. I see your body, whole and complete, arrayed for me on a bed. I see our children, our grandchildren, their faces hazy though I try to bring them into focus. I see us old, gray, and frail, passing into the void, laying side by side, hands clasped.

In all, I see far more to be gained by the opening of my heart: someone to love and be loved by, someone to care for and be cared for by. Isn't that all anyone ever wants in life, even hardened mercenaries? Why have I not weighed the choices in this way before?

I've been in love with you for close to two months. In the eyes of the world, that is not a long time. But I know now what my heart says, and the world's opinion can go to hell.

I've _known _I was in love with you for several weeks. And those weeks have been the hardest of my life. Walking through minefields is easier than what I've had to endure. I've measured every word, gesture, thought and feeling, trying to keep this emotion inside, where it can't harm you, me, or our sweetly developed quid pro quo.

My strength and stamina have run thinner than I thought they ever would. I'm a mercenary: tough is my job security. But these weeks of trying to hide my heart and still live attached at hip to you has worn me down like the torture circumvention practice for Navy Seals. I'm tired, drained. I can't take it any more. That dream yesterday was the last straw.

It has to be tonight. I'm ready, but are you?

My decision is finally made. I accept the consequences, no matter what they may be.

I move my boots to face you squarely. Such a modest movement belying the gravity of my mindset. Such a simple motion to facilitate my utter joy, or ultimate heartbreak. "Meera, I have to get something off my chest." The words are easy because they come from the deepest recesses of my soul. Good, strong start. Now can I follow through, coward? If it were that easy, I would have spoken those words weeks ago.

You look at me expectantly, attentively. The wind lifts your freed hair like invisible fingers are combing it. You always want to hear what I have to say.

Will that change, in the next few minutes? We have but 12 hours left.

"I've been meaning to tell you something for...well, a long time now."

"What is it?" Your eyes are cautiously hopeful, drawn out and reflecting a hesitating rendition of what I am beaconing like a lighthouse.

I swallow, and shuffle forward, closer to you. "Maybe it would be best if I showed you."

You tilt your head. "Is this what I think it is?" you ask. More meaningful words have never been spoken.

Our game, played diligently for weeks and the last barrier between us, is exposed in a second, and washed away like sand from the shore several dozen feet below. "Yes," I reply truthfully. I'm done hiding. I am stripped bare, down to the bone, and you can either throw salt or soothing balm on me.

It's almost like my dream.

I have just enough time to register the change in your expression, and the shift in your body, before your lips are touching mine.


	22. Chapter 22

**Meera:**

It is so amazingly simple to kiss you. It is like raising a hand, or blinking. It is like a piece of me was sewn back on, good as new: a limb that was in a cast and that I have now regained use of.

You are utterly still, but I am swept up in what has been building for weeks, _months, _and has finally manifested. God, your _heat. _With a step over crunchy gravel, I press closer to let it seep into my very bones, contacting you from stomach to chest. My desire spikes at the feel of your wonderful muscles under that shirt and jacket. I wonder if I am being too forward, for you have yet to make a move.

Even as I think it, you seem to snap out of your chains, and you put strong, large hands on my waist and draw me even closer. With insistent lips and a tilt of your head, you turn the tide of the kiss, mouth moving softly against mine.

This feels like riding a comet, my skin being flecked with sparkles of glittering, frozen dust. This feels like a dream within a coma, somehow thoughtless but intense.

I am overcome by my love for you, finally given escape like a pressurized vessel, like a tea kettle. I have been waiting for what feels like forever.

There is no way I can turn back, now.

* * *

**Barney:**

I am so stunned by the sensation of your lips covering mine that I literally am frozen in place. I feel momentarily numb in my entire body, even though your body heat is palpable. I feel cut off, dissociated from my limbs and brain. All that I am is a beating heart, ready to burst with joy and love. All that I am is a soul, finally meeting its twin.

You step closer, undaunted, and your body welds to mine from taut stomach to rounded breasts. My body awakens from the numbness almost painfully, rushing into awareness like a sleeping limb given weight. I put my hands on your waist and pull the rest of you to bear, needing more of you.

Within a span of seconds, I have taken control of the kiss, taking upper, lower, or both of your lips in mine. You reach up and drape your arms over my shoulders, sighing softly through your nose. We are alone on this overlook, on this planet, in this universe.

There is such aching serenity in me, such beautiful stillness and such passive, muted chaos. I have never felt more alive.

Your gentle passion is like a match to my candle. Our flames are constant and manageable with the limited fuel, but that's perfectly alright. We have the rest of our lives. Right now, we are meeting for the first time. So we take our time.

With carefully controlled desire, I tease your lips, gums, and teeth with my tongue, begging entrance.

You make a small sound of surrender and instinctively open your mouth to me.

I explore your mouth carefully, brushing the top, stroking our tongues. Your taste is intoxicating, inebriating. When you tenatively mimic my movements, I want to go to my knees with happiness.

Even after all you've been through, you are not afraid of me, a man.

I don't know how long we kiss: even though we are living by a clock, I could guess hours as easily as minutes.

You pull back first, face covered in a blush of darker pigment that is the flush of your mixed skin, and balance your forehead against mine. "Whoa," you breathe, your voice vibrating the air we share.

"You can say that again," I murmur. I duck to steal another peck, then another that lingers, then a full-on kiss. And we're right back into the fray.

I could do this for days. It comes to my attention that I could do this for the rest of my life.

By the time reality clobbers me over the head with a Timex, I can't see much past my own face (which is squarely filled with your countenance). The stars, which we seem to have just bid goodbye to, and the moon, which seems to hang a little closer, are out.

"We have to get back," I say, not disguising my reluctance.

You laugh at the tone I use, insinuating yourself against me one last time. "Must we?"

I grimace, but not at the feel of your lovely form molding to me. "Yeah. I'm on mission in nine hours. I need some sleep."

You nod, and run a hand down my arm. The fingers of it seek the spaces between mine, and they slot together like bullets in a catridge. Like they were made to fit.

We walk back to the bike, away from the cloud of endorphins that we emanated, and motor into the late summer night.

* * *

The mood has degenerated into a warm buzz by the time we hit the hangar. We carefully keep from touching each other, if only to dissuade the inevitable meeting of our bodies. I need something to bring me home, after all.

We know, without speaking, that we cannot make love yet. This has been a long time coming, building, and has finally crested. Now, we have the rest of our lives to get it right. To become so intimate, just before I leave for weeks, would kill both of us even more than my departure already will. I would not be fit to do my job, I am sure: distracted by the thought of you sighing my name, arching under me, scratching my back, tightening...

Shit, Ross, back the hell up. I can't go down that road, or I'ma need a cold shower, not a hot one.

To settle down, I nurse a cigar in the hangar bay, not trusting myself while you're in the shower. When I hear you walk by the front door I take it as my turn and enter, stripping like my clothes are on fire, walking briskly into the shower line, avoiding looking at you all wet and smelling delicious.

There. Curtain pulled: safe. I try to lose myself in the beating of the drops on my skin, and have almost succeeded when you reenter.

There's a creatively wrapped towel on your head, and your BDU/pajama-clad profile is blurred by the shower curtain. "I just need to brush my hair," you announce. You are much more controlled than I am: you don't look the way of my shower at all. You flip your head forward, bending at the waist, and the towel unravels. With jerky and rubbing movements, you work your hair within the towel, and I soap the same portion of skin unconsciously, transfixed.

The towel comes off, and with a flip of your head that makes my heart stutter, the mussed and water-dark locks flick back. You shake your head, and they settle characteristically around your ears. You sidle over to the sink and pick up your brush.

I jerk the curtain back enough to make you jump, and you whirl to regard my dripping face from across the room. "Don't," I say, sounding a little beggy and a lot enraptured. "It's perfect."

You look momentarily comfused, but your expression softens into one of shyness at my request. You put down the brush, and rub the opposite shoulder. "See you in a few," you say quietly, and take your leave.

I finish my shower, towel off, trek to the closet, and get my nightwear. I hesitate at the door to the closet. What will the rest of this night hold, if not the passion we both seek to delay? Sighing, I feel the weight of the day's events as well as the ones to come. Elated at what has finally happened, but trepiditious about what is to come: a long separation. I walk into the living area, scratching my scalp sleepily.

You've achieved our nightly ritual: fans pointed, lights off, TV off. One difference: you're in my bed, the sheet up to your waist, your arm tucked under the pillow and the other twisting the covers nervously. "Can we...sleep together?" you ask, biting your lip anxiously.

I don't answer right away, weighing the possibilities, and you take it to mean uncertainty.

"You are going to be gone for so long," you rush on. "And I will miss you so..." Your tone is emotive, and your eyes are begging me to understand.

How can I say no to that face? I can keep myself cool enough to do this for you. "Alright," I reply. "Scoot over."

Your eyes light up, and you oblige. I sit down on the mattress and slide first one leg, then another, alongside yours. The bed is just wide enough for one of us on our back, or both on our sides. Our calves touch, and you are close enough to radiate coolness.

"You're cold," I say with a chuckle, coming over an inch to indicate it's alright that we touch.

"No, you are warm," you correct with a yawn, settling against my side. "Like a furnace." Dragging the covers up my chest, you whisper, "Thank you, Barney."

I capture the wayward hand on my sternum, and thread our fingers again. "No. Thank you."

You drift off quickly, and your coolness moderates the temp under the covers perfectly. I have a harder time falling asleep, shutting off my mind about you there next to me, you while I'm gone, you kissing me so sweetly, and the job that is to come. When I finally do sleep, however, it is the deepest and most fulfilling sleep I've had since childhood.


	23. Chapter 23

I rise from the dark and calm seas of sleep like a sperm whale coming up from a hunt with a bellyful of squid. Even as my brain flips on, my eyes remain closed.

There. Half against my side, half on top of me, a warm body heavy with slumber. You are softly breathing and hopelessly peaceful. There is nothing in this world but the movements of your chest at the behest of your lungs, the warmth of your body, and the utter serentity that envelopes us both.

I could stay this way for eternity. Forget whatever heaven I am threatened with, or whatever hell I am promised. This, now, I would happily take as my pine box repose.

So I milk the moment for all it is worth. Every nanosecond, I try to commit to memory. It is an ideal form of meditation for my categorizing mind, which, although at ease due to your proximity, still has a job to wrap itself around.

I mentally go through my bags, tally my gear, and make a pre-flight checkoff list for Santa. A doggedness settles in my bones like marrow, and the very beat of my heart changes pace to reflect it. I have a job to do today, and for another three weeks.

You must feel my heart switch gears like an old Bronco, because you take one deep breath and I can feel you wake up. You realize you're half on me, and your instinctive shyness and modesty overcomes you. You raise your head from my chest, and move to gingerly slide off me. In response, I wrap an arm lazily around your waist, keeping you in place. You stiffen a bit, but realize that it isn't me coping a feel. For the first time, I open my eyes.

You are looking down at me with sleepy mirth, your chocolate hair a mussed and wild headdress. "Good morning," you say. Your voice is throaty and makes my ears prick up (and maybe another part of me, just a little).

"It's about to be," I reply. I sweep a hand up your back, lingering along your sensitive spine, and entangle it in your hair. Asking permission with my eyes, I hesitate, communicating my longing with a gentle massage of my fingertips along the back of your neck.

Your pupils dialate. With measures of eagerness and caution, you dip your head to indulge me. Our lips meet again, and like last night, electricity sparks.

Your lips move with utter gentleness, impossibly soft. I respond in kind, slow in deferrence to you and because I don't want to make you uncomfortable due to my...excitement.

I nuzzle the kiss to a close, and you bury your nose in the junction of my shoulder with a happy sigh. "Now," I say, cradling you there and by the waist. "It's a good morning."

* * *

You make coffee and shit on a shingle. You must have been paying attention that first time I cooked it in front of you, because you nail it the first time. I don't even realize you are cooking until I wander out of the closet, dressed in fatigues, to see you bellied up to the stove.

"Steak and eggs are traditional to the advent of a soldier's deployment, yes?" you ask, looking over your shoulder.

"Yeah," I say. I save the debate on the term 'soldier' for someone else. Instead, I walk up behind you, rest my chin on your shoulder, and cross my arms at your waist. You hum contentedly and tilt your head against mine. I watch you mind the eggs with an artful twist of a spatula.

Forget that I have to leave. Forget that I have to face danger, and elements, and tempt fate. You seem at ease with putting that aside for a few minutes more, and I am grateful for the chance to wring a few more minutes of peace out of our time.

"Grab the toast?" you ask.

I disengage without any real haste, grab a towel, and open the oven to withdraw the pan of browned slices. You plate up the proteins, I pour the coffee, and we sit down.

"Have you got everything?" you ask, the epitome of nonchalance.

I chew, and glance towards the front door where the pile of gear is ready and waiting. "Yeah. It's a pretty straightforward cold-weather job." Except for one little wrinkle, that is: Church. I chase the steak with a swig of coffee, and turn the tables. "Have _you_ got everything?"

Following my train of thought, you stab at a glob of egg, presumably imagining it is Church's eyeball. He's the thundercloud looming over my departure, and it's a cloud we both feel weighing the atmosphere like a building storm. "I will put the gun on after breakfast. I know where the ammo is if I need more than what is in the chamber."

I nod. A thought occurs to me, and I half-smile at it. "Think you can hit a bottlecap from twenty yards by the time I'm back?"

You put down your fork and eye me thoughtfully, looking game. That tilt of your eyes and the confidence mingling in your posture warms me up more than the coffee. "I can do that," you say, gaze even. Challenge accepted. Now, at least, I can pretend I know what you'll be up to while I'm gone.

I clear the table, trying to ward off the mission-mindset for a while longer. But the job is tapping at the door of my mind, growing impatient for my attention. I can't hold it off for much longer.

I prop up on the sink, and the door of my mind shakes in its frame at the force of the job's surge. Not yet. I want just a little longer...

I turn around, and your chin is in one hand and your coffee cup in another. Your eyes are sparkling.

"What?" I ask. Never seen that look before.

You smile and your cheeks darken. A duck of your head reveals the nature of your blush. "Nothing."

I sidle forward, fixed on that blush predatorally. "Ain't nothing," I reply, enjoying your ever-deepening complexion.

You shake your head, still not looking at me. I can see your coy smile, though, and I'm encouraged by it. "No, really, it is nothing," you weakly insist.

I slide my palms across the countertop, and get up under your ducked head to meet your eyes. "Oh, it's something."

You make the prettiest blush/lip bite/eye flutter combo ever to grace a human face. Your accent is thick with contractions, and I revel in the effect I have on you. "It's just that...you're incredibly handsome, Barney."

I have to smirk at that. Score one for Barney Ross. "You wanna know something?" I query, inching closer. "You're - " I kiss your neck. "Incredibly - " Another kiss, under your ear. "Beautiful, Meera." The last words are against your lips, and you press into my kiss with a faint whimper that makes my gut coil pleasantly.

The kiss heats up unexpectedly. I lose track of what I'm doing, and forget I'm trying not to push you too far, or get to a point of no return. When I come to my senses, I'm standing between your knees, framing you with my locked arms, knocking the barstool with my shins, and have you half-bent backwards over the counter with the fervence of my lips on yours. You mewl, and it draws a primal _growl _out of me, and I span your ribs with one greedy hand. You are pawing at my shoulders, and I can't tell if your touch is lusty or if you're trying to push me off. I take it as the latter and rip away from you, breathing heavily. Dread at what I've done hits me like a bucket of cold water. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I gasp, wheeling away. Shit, what have I done?

You are equally shaken, and you drag the back of your hand over your mouth. "It's okay," you reply with a slight tremble to your voice.

"No, it's not," I say, angry with myself. I let my control slip for just a second, and I nearly eat you alive. Christ, you're a drug: body and soul.

"Barney, look at me," you say, with a bit of a quake.

I can't. I don't want to see the disappointment on your face.

"Look at me, Barney Ross." Now, your voice is stern enough to catch me off guard. I find myself obeying it, despite my dread.

Your countenance is still dark with blush, and your lips are kissed-up and your hair a little messy. One elbow is on the countertop I nearly laid you out on. Your eyes are intense, in accord with your next words. "Barney, I _want_ you to kiss me," you assert with gentle passion. "I _want_ you to touch me."

"What if I hurt you?" I ask in a whisper. I don't necessarily mean physically. What if the feel of a man's body against yours brings back memories of your rape? What if you freeze up, and I don't catch it in time? What if I misread you, and take you too far?

"This may come as a surprise to you," you say with more than a hint of sarcasm. "But I can be more than Sally Sob-Story, fragile as glass." You hop off the barstool and reach up, cupping my face with both hands. "I am strong enough, Barney," you insist, your upward gaze an earnest parody of my earlier one. "I am not going to break."

I wrap my fingers around your wrist almost unconsciously, like the reflexive grasp of an infant. Searching your eyes, I find no blame, shame, or hint of the sadness that I fear haunts the recesses of your heart. I see only fading lust and a whole lot of love, mingled with concern for me.

I sigh, and run my thumb over the veined underside of your wrist, eyes flickering away. "I don't deserve you," I mutter, giving in.

You quirk a smile. "I do not deserve you, either." With that, you slide your arms around me as best you can, and hug me tightly.

I bend my arms at the elbow, and the bizarre twist on our usual embrace comforts me. It's strange to be held by you, but not disagreeable.

There's a sound of a motorcycle's engine echoing in the bay, and it brings us out of reverie. "Time to go to work, love," you say, not moving.

I inhale heavily, and let the mindset finally overtake me like a rogue wave. Like a surge of electricity, all the facts, facets, stats and parameters of the job flood my mind. My blood is set to simmer with tenacity, my synapses snapping quicker, my nerves sparking with energy. "Yeah," I reply. "Time to go."

* * *

Christmas has rolled up and is hauling his bag up the stairs of the plane when we come into the hangar. "Mornin' Barney, Meera."

"Good morning, Christmas," you reply with a bright smile. "Need help with your bags?"

"Nah, s'just this thing and my guns," he says. "Barney, your bags aren't up here."

I snap back to reality: I had been thinking about your 'good morning' to me. "Oh, yeah." I stride back to the living quarters and start looping straps over my shoulders. Faintly, I hear you walking away, then boots on the plane stairs. I pause and listen, but can't catch anything meaningful.

Laden with my gear, I walk as quietly back into the hangar as I can. I am just in time to hear you say, in your most beseeching tone, "You have to promise me, Lee Christmas."

"Meera, if it were a promise I could keep without fail, I would make it," he responds, clearly disappointed he can't promise what you're asking, whatever it is.

"I need you to promise me he'll come home safe," you say, your boots clomping across the plane. "Please, Lee, I am going to have a hard time while he is gone. I need to know someone is looking out for him. He is distracted by...well, by me." You sound guilty as hell, and I can picture you folding your arms self-comfortingly over your belly.

Christmas pauses. "You mean you and he - ?"

"Just kissing," you assert. I can practically hear your blush. "But I want to go a lot further than that." Good. I'm glad I'm not just making this up. You hesistate, and the next words come so softly I strain to hear them. "I love him, Lee."

My heart soars into what feels like orbit. I want to run up the stairs of the plane and embrace you as tight as I can. I'm absolutely elated, until I realize you didn't intend for me to hear the words of devotion.

Christmas sighs. I can envision him scratching his stubble. "Alright," he conceeds. "I'll bring him home. I promise."

I hear you take three brisk steps, and Christmas makes an 'Oof!' sound. You must be hugging him. "Thank you!" you say with obvious relief.

I make a show of clomping noisily up the steps. "And here I thought we were exclusive," I say without ire.

You free Christmas with a laugh.

"No, mate, I'm afraid I'm seeing someone else," cracks Christmas.

We share a laugh at that, and as it dies, I hear a trio of motorcycles in the distance. Sticking my head out of the plane, I see Yang and Gunnar rolling up, with Toll not far behind. Even as they park, throw dust covers over their rides, and greet us with bags and weapons in hand, Ceasar tools in and completes the team.

"Alright, we're all here," I say, eyeing them proudly from the plane door. "You all look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready for action, so I'll make this quick. This may seem like another job to us, but it's not. It's another opportunity to prove our dominance, our excellence. We are the best, boys. So let's show it."

There is a chorus of "Yeah!" and "You know it!", and the men start to file onto the plane. I step down one last time, and you meet me halfway. Our hug is fierce, and our kiss fiercer. So fierce, in fact, I don't hear the men snickering until it is too late.

I throw a middle finger and a dirty look over my shoulder, and their catcalls escalate. You bury your head in my chest with embarassment, but laugh anyway, the sensation vibrating in my ribs.

You pull back, and beg me one more time with brown eyes and emotive words, "Please come back to me."

I cup your soft cheek, and run a thumb over your lips, memorizing their curve. When I reply, it is with soul-deep promise. "I will."

Then, with aching slowness, I turn, ascend into the plane, and close the airlock behind me. Your face is obscured by inches of metal, and soon, it will be obscured by miles of ocean and mountain.

I settle into the cockpit where Christmas is waiting, and start my pre-flight. "You wait," says my friend by way of consolation. "Three weeks will fly by."

Toggling some switches, I bring Santa to life with a chug that morphs into a roar. "I hope so," I reply.


	24. Chapter 24

I watch the plane taxi down the runway, and a piece of my heart breaks off jaggedly, falling to the pit of my stomach. It leaves the ground with the plane as it drifts behind the clouds and disappears. There...you...go.

For a long time, I stand there and watch the place it vanished, half-expecting it to reappear. Who knows: maybe I could stand here and wait until is does. Maybe you will simply turn around in a minute, or two, or ten, and the plane will nose out of the sky. It does not, and I am hollowly disappointed.

But, really, what did I expect? This was bound to happen sooner or later. From the moment we met, in that nasty and horrific hut in Nepal, you and I were bound to be separated at some point. I begin what will turn into a bad habit by muttering to myself in my mother tongue, "That is what you get for loving a mercenary, Meera."

Ripping my eyes from the sky, I turn around and walk back into the hangar. My boots' scuffling echoes oddly. It is strange how the sound of one set of boots sounds so lonely, even more so in a huge hangar.

I key the heavy steel door's keypad combination automatically and enter the living quarters. Again, the oddness rears its head. The place feels so incredibly deflated without you, Barney. Empty and lifeless, like a doll compared to an infant.

To test the boundaries of this new aloneness, I wash the dishes. When my back is to the room, it is easier to forget I am by myself. But the moment I turn around, it washes over me again.

Clocks tick, fans whir, a bug taps against the inside of a window. God, the lack of sound feels like a physical pressure against my ears.

I need noise. Something, anything, to break this oppressive quiet. I turn on the TV and find an _I Love Lucy_ marathon, but cannot focus on my favorite sitcom. Flipping restlessly from sitting, to laying, to half-sitting, I eventually get frustrated and get up. I am used to having you to prop up against.

The expanse of time that this will last stretches before me like a road to the planet Mars. It promises to be alien, and strange, and full ugly things to be discovered. Will I find some good in the mix, as well?

It occurs to me I have not been this alone in my entire life. I had the village growing up, if not to the degree of the non-ostracized members, and I have had you for over two months attached to my hip. Is aloneness an American invention?

I turn off the TV and taste the quiet with a bit more boldness, like a mouse peeking out of its burrow. There is no denying it: this is new, and therefore foreign. But that does not mean it has to be a bad thing. That thought brings a slow smile to my lips. Like a trickle on land turns into an ocean tide at sea, I start to think of things I can do while you're gone that I could not do with you here.

You gave me a cell phone a couple of days ago, in case I needed it, and I fish it out of my pocket. I have a wild idea, or at least, wild for me. From memory, I dial the number from the warehouse's sign. "Hello? Is this January?"

"Meera?" comes the confused reply. "That you?" I can hear the warehouse's bustle fading in the background as she walks someplace quieter to talk.

"Hello!" I greet, relieved I got her the first try, and cross my legs on the couch.

"Well, hi!" she replies, clearly not exepcting me. "Little early, ain't it?"

"Not for me. I am sorry, did I wake you?"

The short-haired woman makes a 'pfft' sound. "As if. I run a business. I'll get all the sleep I need when I'm dead."

I stifle the urge to ask why she would die, then realize it is an American figure of speech. I am getting better at recognizing them.

I giggle. "Airy, do you want to come over some time this week?"

She pauses for a split second, processinig the minor shock. "Is that cool with Barney?"

"Barney is gone for a while," I admit. I feel safe enough telling her, even if Barney told me to keep that one close to my chest.

Airy inhales. "On a job?"

"Yes. And I could use the company," I wheedle.

"So, wait, you're alone now?"

"Yep!" I say, perhaps with more cheer than necessary.

Airy whoops. "Hot damn! Nothing like being free of menfolk, am I right?"

Her tone suggests I have no room to argue, if I were in disagreement. But I am not. "It is odd, but growing more welcome," I reply.

"You know the first thing I do when I have a day to myself?"

"What?"

"Off comes the bra!" I hear something in the background drop and clang. "George, you clumsy thing!" January chides. There is a murmur of apology.

I snort with laughter. "So won't you come over? I have been saving my MRE brownies for just such an occassion," I ply.

Airy laughs. "Okay, count me in! I can't even remember the last time I had a girl's night in. I'm open for two nights from now. How's that?"

I grin. "Ideal!" There is the sound of an office door slamming shut and the voice of an old man in the background. "It sounds like you are busy. I will let you go."

Airy huffs and addresses the voice, "Pops, oatmeal _always_ has brown flecks in it: it's a damn grain." To me, she says, "Yeah, I gotta scoot. See you in two nights."

"Goodbye."

She takes a moment to chuckle, and I guess it is at my mannerisms. "Bye, Meera."

We hang up. Now, when I look around the large room, it feels a tiny bit less empty.

I look down my shirt. If I wore a bra, I would be taking it off now.

* * *

**Church:**

I put a pen down on the notepad that I've been taking notes on and remove a set of earphones from my head. In a windowless room, in a cabin hidden deep in the forest some miles away from the two women I just eavesdropped on, I am one giant step closer to getting even with Barney Ross.

Two nights from now. Glancing at the Playboy Bunny calendar, I smile. Ross, and even Meera, have no clue what's coming down the pipe for them.

I interlace my fingers and tip my chair back on two legs, staring at the ceiling. Ross made the biggest mistake of his life by shutting down what could have been a beneficial relationship. We could have had a nice setup: I give him jobs, he succeeds at doing what he does best, I get the credit from the Langley offices, and he gets his money. I do not appreciate being cheated out of what I had thought was a surefire win with the Kresh assassination. That job could have landed me a corner office. I admit, I had already been daydreaming about what to put on the walls.

But that fucking merc stole it all from me. Now all those little jabs, disrespects, and nose-thumbings are going to come back around to old Ross, hard.

When he refused my offer for the simple Kresh termination, he made a lot of people I answer to angry. That knocked me down a few - okay, if I'm honest, several - pegs across the board. I need to get a slamdunk under my belt, soon, if I am going to get back on top. I am an angry man at being spanked like a petulant child.

So here I am, in one of my best boltholes, sitting under a hot satellite on the roof, bouncing signals from all over the atmosphere to listen in on a half-native and a dike set up a sleepover. I've been gathering intel for weeks on Ross and Meera, and everyone they run across, including January, preparing for this moment even as I hoped it would not come. Now, my forward thinking is going to pay off.

I need real, physical leverage to get at Barney: money didn't work. Once I get him bent to my will, I can have him kill the Kresh girl. And to bend him to my will, I need to exploit his weakness.

Ross is _going_ to obey me: that's a promise. He is _going_ to show me some respect.

The thought of Ross showing me any respect is laughable. But imagining his face when he learns I have him by the short-and-curlies brings a true smile to my lips.

Meera might even put up a struggle. Being in the company of Barney and the rest of his hoodlums has doubtlessly taught her something. That should be fun.

I'll have some entertainment picking apart her brain to sate my own curiousity. All my intel has revealed about her is that she is from Nepal, and Barney somehow picked her up on mission. Having watched her for weeks without fruit has been slowly eating at me. I hate nagging questions. I am eager to find out more about who she is, where she came from, how she and Barney met. More to the point, I imagine she has some insights into Barney's ops that I can use as leverage in the future, once she's of no more use to me.

Oh, the possibilities. Once I get her here, and comfortable, and loosened up as only the CIA methodology can, I can sail back into first place with the song she will sing.

She's mine. He's mine. They just don't know it yet.

* * *

**Barney:**

Ceasar volunteered to arrange the playlist for this mission, and I have to chuckle as 'Smoke On The Water' plays through the plane.

The homesickness is starting to drift away, ever so slowly, like a kid going to camp. I try to hasten the process by allowing the rock to envelope my mind. The first hundred miles pass with me figuratively holding my breath, waiting for the ache in my chest to start. To my utter surprise, it doesn't.

I try to put my finger on why I am not overwhelmed by the thought of leaving you. Maybe I've been mentally preparing for this moment since the first time we met. Maybe I feel confident in your ability to take care of yourself. Maybe I'm supernaturally comforted by the promise I made to come back.

Or maybe it's laying in wait to pounce on me when I least expect it.

"You fixed the altimeter," comments Christmas, tapping the little glass circle.

"Yeah," I reply. "Took me the better part of a day to just reach the damn thing." That was the day you crawled into the inner workings of the plane with me, and handed me tools. If I try, I can remember the smell of you, filling the cramped space as you watched my dirty and greasy hands work, occassionally asking a question but otherwise content to be close to me. That was the day I saw you start to flesh out, when I first noticed the pinpricks of feathers on my little phoenix's skin.

Oh. Yep. There's the ache, twinging like an old wound. In response, I reach under the pilot's chair and grab a flask, unscrew the top, and take a nip.

Christmas doesn't miss a thing, the observant bastard. Those eyes can pin a fly to the wall with a flick of a knife. "You are hopeless," he sighs, shaking his head. He takes the flask and matches my gulp. "Have you at least got a picture of her?"

I growl, then bounce a fist off the instrument panel. Needles swing wildly, then settle. "Shit, no, I didn't even think of that."

"That's too bad," says Chirstmas, drawing a picture of Lacy out of his breast pocket. He smooches it and returns it.

I give him a baleful look. "I hate your guts."

"I know, mate."

"You are an asshole."

"I love you too."

"I believe the term in your native tongue is 'bugger'."

"Keep talking like that, Mr. Ross. You might get lucky."

And so my friend distracts me from my own problems by pissing me off. Bickering, conversation, mission stats, and arguing over the music pass the hours. You linger in the corner of my mind, though, like a ghost.

Fuck me. These three weeks are going to be a bitch.


	25. Chapter 25

"Everyone, hold your breath!" hollers Gunnar, sticking his head into the cockpit.

"Why, somebody fart?" I ask dryly.

"We are now..." continues Gunnar, looking at the instruments. "Officially...in Nepalese airspace."

"Yeah, yeah," Christmas says, not looking up from the letter he was writing. "And in three minutes, we'll be in Russian airspace."

"Was that a small joke?" queries Yin Yang with plausible indignation from the rear. We all laugh.

"Is everyone comfortable?" I ask in a falsetto soccer mom voice. "I can turn up the heat, if you like."

Tool snorts, and I can hear it even up in the cockpit. "What heat?"

"The only heat this thing sees," agrees Ceasar. "Is whatever flak is whizzing by."

"Thank God we don't have to worry about that, huh?" mutters Chirstmas to me. "We're riding the borders, not actually breaking international invasion laws."

"But if we defer a mile in either direction..." I trail off. Looking out the window, I can see the mountains we are soon to be traversing, rising from gentle swells covered in pointed trees to sharply chiseled angles. They stick like wrinkled razors from the earth, magnificent in their ferocity, all slate grays, the powdery pine green timberline, deep blue ice crevasses, and white, white, white everywhere else. We skim the points, seemingly closer than we are.

I am interrupted in my contemplation of nature by a bright green, split-second flash across the instrument panel. It draws my eye, quick as a muzzle flash. "What the hell...?"

Christmas catches it the second time, and repeats my sentiment.

The little green dot jerks around the cockpit, sourceless and seeking, twitching up the walls, across the instruments, and onto my chest.

"Is that a - ?" I start. I don't have time to finish, as the green laser dot sinks itself into my right eye like a knife. I convulse, my hands going to my face, and the plane starts to veer without my steady grip. "Sonofa - !" As the PBY starts to veer suddenly, the men yell out in surprise at the tilt, some of them making impact on the other side of the plane.

"Shit, Barney, the plane!" barks Christmas, taking my controls while I cradle my weeping eye, doubled over from the pain. I open it, blink, and that sends fresh stabs of pain through my head. I can't see more than blurs with the one eye, and fine with the other, and it gives me a nauseating sense of vertigo. It feels like someone took sandpaper to my cornea.

"Oh, fuck me," I grind out. "Christmas, someone just blinded me with a laser pointer."

"Who the fuck?" he replies angrily, wrestling the plane back onto track.

"What the hell was that?" says Ceasar, coming to the cockpit.

"Someone just took out one of my eyes with a laser pointer," I reply, facing away from the windows. "Find me some ducttape and something to cover this window. I can't afford to lose the other eye."

Ceasar leaves, and comes back with one of Toll's books: _The Sound and The Fury, _from Oprah's book list. "Keep it!" I hear Toll holler. "I hate that damn book!"

Ceasar works quickly, stretching long arms over my hunched form, and in a minute the window is covered thickly in Faulkner's masterpiece.

"Who wants to take out this plane?" queries Christmas to the plane in general. "Who knows we're doing this job, and doesn't like it?"

"Search me," Yin Yang says, appearing in Ceasar's place with a med kit. "Hold still, Barney. Let me see."

With a groan, I lean up and he hisses. "Damn. I'm going to have to patch it."

"Make it quick. I gotta land this plane in a few minutes."

Yang flushes the eye with saline, tapes it shut, and tapes a gauze patch over it. "You'll have to keep it covered for a while."

"Shit," I spit, touching the patch tenderly. The eye still feels raw, like it should be bleeding. "I don't know who the fucker is," I snarl, feeling for the controls through the blur of my weeping eyes. "But when I find him, he's dead."

"The crying should quit soon," says Yang as he departs. I hear him make solid contact with another person, and he and Gunnar trade polite insults.

Gunnar makes an appearance. After regarding me for a moment, he says wryly, "You know, there's a pirate joke in here somewhere."

"How about up your ass, Gunnar?" I snap, finding the controls finally.

The tall Swede chuckles and leaves Christmas and I to our business.

Christmas does a few quick calculations, and taps around on a soldier-grade, satellite-fed GPS. "Our landing strip is about four miles at our current bearing."

I twist my hand on the control, betraying my anxiety at my sudden disability. "I might need you to - "

"On it," says my friend neutrally. He reaches under the dash, flips a switch, and the copilot controls are activated.

"Thanks," I say. Ow, my eye. At least the crying seems to be slowing down. "Okay, guys, ETA is two minutes. Gear up, and slap on some lipstick. We're meeting our client." I sigh, run my hand through my hair, and wish for you. You, with your sweet scent and soft hair and kind eyes and killer body. You, who would take my face in your cool fingers and kiss my aching eye, then my nose, then my lips, and make it all better.

When I reopen my eyes, the ache left from the laser has transferred to my heart. I have a job to do. Looming out of the swirling white, two long lines of red flares appear on the ground.

The men rustle and kid as they pull on their heaviest snow gear, give their weapons a quick check. They don their backpacks while sitting down, roll onto their stomachs, then rise from their hands and knees under the heavy loads. We're all going to be carrying our lives with us.

Flying here on the grace of the instruments, I hardly noticed the flakes of snow. As we near the landing strip, it gets thicker. My half-rate vision weighs on me as we begin our approach.

"Steady as she goes," murmurs Christmas, caressing the controls. "There's a good girl."

If I wasn't so focused, I might have similar musings for the plane. But as it is, I am caught by the feel of our leaden drop. The plane creaks, arguing with nature and physics, as we seem to plummet from the sky faster than we actually are. Only Christmas and mine's steady hands keep the plane from straying from its course under the gusts of freezing wind that push against the windows and make the metal groan. There is a jolt as the landing gear makes contact, and we rapidly decelerate.

"Like threading a needle," continues Christmas with soft victory.

The hard part is over, so I have time to snark, "Is that your bedroom voice for Lacy?"

"Hilarious, Ross. I'll have to remember that one."

We come to a stop at the end of the runway, about a hundred feet from the two parked black SUV covered in snow sitting on ice and tarmac strip. Christmas and I quickly pull on the rest of our gear and roll under our backpacks. When Gunnar cracks the plane's door, and winter's bitch of a mother howls in bearing fat flakes of snow, the Swede inhales in a deeply satisfied way. "Just like home," he croons, jumping into the swirling white.

The rest of us suppress shivers and follow, boots and packs making for heavy landings. Yang's knees almost give out from the five foot drop, under the weight of his gear.

While we exited the plane, one SUV had opened up and four figures in thick snow gear made their way over. The snow obscured them for over half of the distance, but the shorter and smaller form of one indicated a woman. Two were exceptionally large, almost as big as Ceasar, and I guess them to be bodyguards. They stride confidently over the slick ice, even toting their guns in slings across their bodies. As the group walks closer, I can gauge the final one to be a middle-aged man. I can feel my men eyeing the small group, automatically picking targets and arranging themselves to be out of each other's line of fire. Old habits die hard.

"Mr. Kresh?" I say, loud enough to be heard over the snowstorm. For some reason, the woman stays back a few feet, her face hidden by her deep hood trimmed with fur.

"_Da_," replies the man, his baritone carrying easily. His piercing blue eyes stare at me like ice chips from under the fur of his hat. He extends a gloved hand. "And you are Barney Ross?"

"Yes. These are my men. We're here to work."

"Good. There are some things we must discuss in private, Mr. Ross," says the businessman, gesturing to the SUV. "Your men may enjoy a warm drink while they wait. Welcome to Mother Russia!"

One of the bodyguards produces a thermos and a few styrofoam cups, and as he pours, the rising steam is carried off by the ever-changing wind. As I follow Kresh, the woman comes along side him, and we leave the guys to a hot toddy.

The SUV is blessedly warm and dry. Barely five minutes into this, I am dreaming of Malibu and MaiTais. "Is something wrong?" I query neutrally as we close the doors.

The woman tips back her hood, and the spitting image of Kresh is revealed. She eyes me like a piece of rotten meat, snapping blue eyes not holding back her disdain.

"Nothing eez wrong," says Kresh. He pours from yet another thermos in the cup holder, and holds it out to me. I accept it out of politeness, but wait for him to take a sip from his own cup before I follow suit. Can I get a 'hell yes' for brandy and hot chocolate? "But there is a slight change in plans."

I sip, and regard him thoughtfully. I should have known if there was booze involved, he was buttering me up. "Go on."

"One of your men eez required to stay behind, in my care, for the duration of this job."

I nearly spit-take the mix. "That wasn't in our agreement."

"It eez now," says Kresh with dark firmness.

The woman finally speaks, and her tone is like the ice outside. "Father thinks I will be safer with you if he has a hostage."

"Hush, Nadia!" barks Kresh. His daughter falls silent with a look of restrained anger. "If you want dees job, Ross," he continues. "You will have to leave behind a man. Period."

I put down my cup. "I need to talk to my men."

"By all means."

I fling myself out of the SUV, and the cold wind whistles through the fabric of my eyepatch. I stomp over to the guys, who are getting cozy with the bodyguards, and ask none-too-politely for some privacy. "We gotta problem," I growl. "Kresh wants one of us to stay behind as a hostage, so that his little ice princess will be safe with us."

"Son of a bitch," mutters Christmas, shifting.

"So we have two options: one, we leave him high and dry. Or two, we go in a man down."

After a moment of quiet which is filled by the falling snow, Yin Yang speaks, "I will do it."

I eye him. "You don't have to be the one, Yang. It could be me: I have a handicap, after all," I say, pointing to my patched left eye.

Yang shrugs. "It makes most sense. I am small. I can't carry as much. I get lost in the deep snow."

"Your words, not mine," chuckles Gunnar. But he shoves the Asian's shoulder with respectful affection.

"You might not be treated like a friend," I warn. "This is Russia."

"I know. I can handle it. It's just three weeks, right?"

I have to smile at Yang's never-say-die attitude. I clap him on the shoulder. "Way to take one for the team, Yang. We'll keep Miss Kresh safe, so you can come home."

I walk back to the SUV. "We've made our choice: Yang is going to stay behind."

"Excellent," says Kresh in a pleased way that makes me want to smack him stupid. We all rejoin at the plane, and Yang walks over to stand with the Russians while Miss Kresh comes to stand behind me.

"Three weeks," Kresh says, eyeing his daughter and I with disguised leathality.

"Three weeks," I repeat.

Our groups part: one to the relative comforts of civilization, and the other to the vast, wild unknown with our hands on our weapons and a strange woman in our midst.


	26. Chapter 26

**Meera:**

I wake up the next morning groggy. Sitting up and rubbing my eyes, I listen to the near-perfect silence and streaming sunshine. It took me half a night of tossing fitfully to realize what I was missing. Fishing around under the covers, I pull out one of you plaid flannel shirts. Bringing it to my face, I bury my nose in it and inhale deeply, my chest panging as I detect the scent of motor oil, cigars, deodorant, and _you. _"Good morning," I say aloud. It makes me miss you all over again.

There's an empty bed next to me. It takes me a moment to realize that it is my own. I do not remember switching beds last night, but curling up in the indention of your mattress must have made a difference in how I slept.

My God. Two weeks, six days to go. I will never make it.

But you would want me to try, just like you coaxed me into trying those first hard weeks under your care.

I stumble to the kitchen, make coffee, and comfort myself with an MRE brownie. Leaning against the counter, I study the large room. With a hot mug in hand, I wander around, looking at each thing in turn, trying to find something to...what? Fill the void? Capture my attention?

I have read all the books. I could read them again, but it seems superfluous. I could go outside, but the empty hangar where the hulking plane used to sit would mess with me. I could watch TV, but that feels unproductive and ineffectual.

Restless and fidgety, I pace with my mug all around the place, picking up and putting down things blindly. A mason jar of bolts klinks in my hand. A piece of riveted metal, sheared at one end. A stick of spot weld. An ash tray of grenade pins.

Not even an hour into my day, and I am already spiraling into despondency. I miss you. If I do not correct this soon, these weeks will progress with me curled in a corner. I am anxious enough that my heart is beating faster and my palms are sweating. I try to blame it on the coffee, but my gut knows better.

A thought occurs to me, and the implication of possible comfort tempts me. Walking out into the hangar, I pointedly avoid looking at the empty space the plane should have been. I approach the small herd of cloth-covered forms in the corner, and whip the cover off the most familiar one. Your gleaming metal skull ornament grins at me, and I have to smile in return. Balancing precariously, I swing one leg over the seat, avoid sloshing my coffee, and settle with the motorcycle between my legs. Closing my eyes and kneading the leather seat with one hand, try to bring back memories of flying down the road, of being pressed against your leather-clad back, of having your firm stomach under my fingers and the comforting rumble of the bike under us.

I understand in a moment of stunning introspective clarity why I love riding the bike so much. On the bike, I am the most beautiful thing in the world. I am on a lovely, moving, powerful throne where no one can touch me, or harm me. I am exhibited in a most innocuous way by my chauffeur, for all to see and admire. By putting me on the bike behind you, you constantly tell the world, "This is mine. She is beautiful enough to ride with me. Worship her power (even as the bike gives it), marvel at her loveliness."

Leaning over, I put my mug on the ground. Shifting laterally, I wrap my arms around the bike, laid over on the seat. I stay that way until my heart aches less and beats slower.

* * *

**Barney:**

Cold.

The cold never goes away.

It spears through lesser clothes, seeps into spaces between garments like fingers, arrives suddenly in odd places like knees and ears. The snow melts and encourages a pathway for more of the cold. The wind blasts it at us like artillery barrage.

I push these little nagging thoughts out of my head with a hearty shake. Frankly, I prefer cold to intolerable heat. Although places like Vietnam appeal right now, I can easily remember the constant, suffocating humidity, the bloodsucking insects that conspired to carry me off, the disgust and slight horror of seeing my toenails peel away, layer by layer, under the trench foot rot.

Yeah, I'll take cold over heat any day.

We travel in a formation well known to us: a phalanx. Christmas takes lead, in front of Miss Kresh, while Toll and I flank her and Gunnar and Ceasar bring up the vulnerable rear. I kind of miss Yang already, because having someone to even out my degraded line of sight would have made me a lot more comfortable. We all carry our slung guns with fingers on the triggers, but that might be a byproduct of having them frozen in place. We are pros, so our heads are constantly swiveling, our eyes (or, for me, eye) pierce the fluttering veil of snow for enemies and landmarks and cover. One good thing about cold: it keeps the mind on edge.

Stopping for a coordinates check allows us time to remember the chill. Moving keeps it from settling, but being motionless gives the mind room to realize the discomfort. I suppress a shiver as a particularly icy blast rattles up my spine.

Gunnar is a brave soul, for all his past shortcomings. He is the first to speak to Miss Kresh, over the bullying wind. "May I ask your name?" he says.

Miss Kresh, who has pulled down her cowl and snow goggles, looks up from a laminated topographical map, pinning him with sharp blue eyes. "It eez Nadia." And she goes back to her map.

Gunnar angles himself so that she could see him more easily, if she cared to. "I'm Gunnar."

"Well met, Gunnar," she replies with scathing sarcasm, folding the map and double checking the coordinates on a waterproof GPS. The goggles go back on, and Nadia goes back to being a client. She returns the map to a small pocket on the strap of her pack and starts forward, and we follow.

I glance at Gunnar, but he is not seemingly deterred. I get the feeling he's not going to give up so easily, the idiot ladykiller. When I catch his eye, I make sure my one uncovered eye glares hard enough to remind him we're on mission, not playing.

"Sunset eez at four-oh-seven tonight," Nadia speaks up, crunching on. "We will stop before then, to make camp before the snowstorm picks up."

"It can pick up?" queries Toll quietly. "And here I thought we'd bottomed out."

Nadia turns to regard him with a smile that matches the ice shot through the sheer cliff faces in the distance. "Eet can always get worse, out here."

I sidle closer until we're trudging side but side. "What is the name of your first contact?"

"The village known as Crios is the home of a well-known rebel leader and his group," replies Nadia. "That eez a day's walk, at least. More if the snow keeps falling."

I nod. We'll get there sooner or later. It makes no difference to a mercenary paid for time.

The methodical choosing of footsteps and cover points occupies my mind like meditation. This is the job, in its simplest form. This is relatively easy, compared to infiltration. The hard part will come when we have to tag along for the Q&A with the rebel leader. I can only imagine how he'll take five armed mercs attached at the hip to his interviewer.

Cold, heat, gunfire, torture... all these things are basically alike between missions. People, though; not so much. They are the ultimate wildcards, the unknown factors, the epitome of Murphy's Law. If something can go wrong where people are concerned, it will.

I glance around at my men, tough as hell in their snowsuits, gear, guns, and guts. Fuck Murphy. He didn't count on _us. _

We crunch on through the sideswiping storm, keen and keeping warm with glib conversation. Sentences pettered on and off as the wind and our searching eyes took priority, but it keeps us in good spirits. We stop at a minor clearing, loosely protected by a forest of fallen and wind- and ice-carved stone. When Nadia climbs to the top of a two-story rock to get a feel for the land, we stay below. The brief break in the storm allows us to get a clear look around, for the first time. What all of us realize is that it also opens us up to anyone with a scope and a will to kill. The rock face is steep, and not large enough to hold more than one person, so I reluctantly let Nadia go on her own. Not like she gives me any choice...

"Wonder how Yang is, right about now," muses Ceasar.

Gunnar snorts. "Warmer, no doubt." He looks up at the dark form on top of the rock, then glares our surrouondings more vigorously, as though they are purposefully hiding sharpshooters. We're all pretty tight, despite our lighthearted chatter. Nadia is painfully exposed up there.

"Maybe enjoying a cuppa with Mr. Kresh," Christmas continues the conversation.

"Or Mrs. Kresh," snickers Toll. We all laugh.

If she can hear us, Nadia is unaffected. When I look up this time, she is crouched to hold the camera in her hand steady.

"Would you hurry up?" I holler. "We have a schedule to keep."

"I want a photo of this sunset," she replies loudly, undeterred. "We won't find a better place to set up camp before nightfall. We will do it here."

I grind my teeth at her entitled tone, but I tacitly agree. Decisively, I slide an arm out of my pack and let it drop to the tundra. Some of the men start to follow suit, while Toll and Ceasar stand guard with their backs to the rock.

The rock is, I have to admit, is pretty ideal for a basecamp. It shelters us on one massive side, and cuts down the amount of area we need to watch as well as the amount of wind that can reach us. Like the well-oiled machines we are, we delegate tasks without words. Christmas sets up the tent, I start a campstove, and Gunnar spots Nadia as she climbs down the sheer rock.

There comes a sound of a boot heel on ice and Nadia crying out, then a grunt from Gunnar as he catches the falling woman. Without turning around, I smirk in Christmas' direction and wait for it...

"I can handle myself, sir!" comes Nadia's hot protest. I listen as she scrambles out of the Swede's arms with indignant noises, and then pops Gunnar on the cheek. None of us dare turn around, for fear of infuriating our client with our laughter.

She stomps past me and into the newly pitched tent. If the thing had a door, she would have slammed it.

Gunnar walks over to relieve Ceasar, so he can cook for the team. As he passes me, he mutters dreamily, "I think I'm in love."

I can't help chuckling.

As Ceasar begins to work his magic with the campstove, I walk around the entire rock, checking things out, securing the entire perimeter. It gives me time to think, and I pause to regard the setting sun. It fascinates me that even the sunset is brought to less by this cruel land, reduced from its glorious orange and red splendor to pale, anemic yellow.

I stand there with my slung gun and watch it disappear behind the mountains, into another timezone. The shadow of the craigs moves as though alive across the snow. Finally allowed a measure of peace, I cast my mind to you.

What are you doing now? Are you eating and drinking and sleeping well? Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

The darkness and the cold wind chase me back to the tent eventually, and I try to leave my heartache out in the chill. The guys and I enter the fairly spacious tent and sit around, leaned against our packs, sharing a common pan of some kind of gumbo knockoff that Ceasar cooked up. There is a divider sheet erected between Nadia's sleeping spot and ours, and if we are disturbing the princess' sleep, she doesn't deign to complain.

One day down, twenty to go. Gunnar volunteers to take the first and coldest watch, biding us a sarcastic, "Sweet dreams, ladies," as he zips the tent closed behind him. I snuggle into my thermal sleeping bag and immediately fall asleep, beat from the strenuous day of travel.

It seems like only seconds before I am dreaming of you.

We're just outside the tent, and the storm is completely gone. There is bright sunlight everywhere, amplified by the snow's shine. You glide across its surface like a ghost. You are nude, which takes me aback for a moment, but it does not feel sexual. It was how I saw you for the first time, after all.

"Hi," I say, my voice surprisingly clear.

You smile beautifically, your dark skin contrasting the white snow. "Hello," you reply. Your voice is like bells.

I smile back, but with less happiness. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too." You close the gap between us, and put a hand on my arm. "Soon." The word holds so much potential, so much promise. That word contains the rest of my life in its single syllable.

"Soon," I echo. The hand on me is the barest pressure, no more than a breeze.

When I wake up to Christmas shaking me to take shift, I am smiling. When he asks why, I just shake my head mutely.

My four hours standing on the tundra in the middle of the whipping storm flies by, as I am kept warm by the thought of you standing next to me. As the sun rises on a new day, I greet it fondly, and bid the apparition of you goodbye. I know that the next time I close my eyes, you'll be there.


	27. Chapter 27

**Yin Yang:**

The Russians are surprisingly hospitable. They only put a bag over my head to enter the Kresh compound's solid cinderblock walls, and it smells recently laundered. They even let me put it on myself, even though the two muscled men on either side of me are hulkingly, silently insistent.

In my line of work, such treatment is unprecedented.

I hate that I had to abandon my team. We need each other to be cohesive, to give our very best to the job. Now, they will have to suffer through a surprise one-man-shy operation. As the Americans say, it sucks ass. And, as my people say, it sucks ass.

Once thrust out of the SUV, I am deftly patted down and all my weapons are confiscated. "Not even dinner out, first?" I kid.

The Russians are not amused. "Yull get dem bahk," says one of them, a less-than-fluent security agent. "When yoor time eez to leave."

I am led by the upper arms up a set of stone stone stairs that grind with freshly strewn salt, presumably a front entrance. The air inside the house is warmer than outside, but only by comparison. Guilt stabs me as I think about the guys, all freezing off their eggrolls on that God-forsaken tundra. I wish I was with them.

With polite if gruff tugs, I am escorted down several halls, deeper into a wing of the house. I can feel rather than see the doors pass, the windows. I take mental note of each of them, and the number of turns we take. There is no such thing as complete sensory deprivation, I have learned, and every piece of information is a weapon in a suitably creative mind. They would have had to carry me or knock me out to get me lost, but it seems they are looser in their precautions with a willing hostage.

The bag is taken off. With a final unceremonious shove, I am put into a curiously spacious room with no windows, appointed with nice furniture, a bathroom, and a large TV.

Again, unprecedented for hostage situations as I know them. Especially the bathroom.

"Food will be delivered three times a day," says one of the muscled men, tucking the bag into a pocket. He looks more refined than his partner, who must have been the crudely accented one who patted me down. "There is cable on the television."

I look around, then back at them with a nod, shedding my heaviest layer of snowgear. Looks like I am going to be here for quite a while.

The door closes and locks from the outside. I am alone.

Or am I?

I hear movement on the other side of the wall. Bedsprings creaking, floorboards adjusting, scratching. "Hello?" comes a muffled male voice.

My head cocks, and I frown around until I locate the source of the voice: an airvent about a foot from the ceiling, twelve-by-six inches with a metal grate. I drag a chair over to the wall and climb onto it. "Hello?" I reply, unsure.

"Oh, thank God!" comes the sarcastic reply. I can tell now it is an Australian accent. "I thought I was hallucinating or some shite."

"No, I am real," I assure. "I am Yang. What is your name?"

"Shawn. Shawn Sullivan. I'd shake your hand, but, ya know, walls and such buggery."

Why does that name sound vaguely familiar? "It is nice to meet you," I say. I am happy that I will have another person to talk to during my captivity.

"Same here, buddy. Good t' hear a voice that ain't on the telly."

"So, what did you do to get a stay at Hotel Kresh?" I joke.

"Same as you, I imagine. I'm leverage for someone."

My brow furrows. "How did you know - ?"

"Bah!" cuts off Sullivan. "That's Kresh's favorite card to play. He won't threaten you. He'll just hold on to someone close to you, in case you have second thoughts about doing what he wants."

"You sound bitter," I observe neutrally.

"Bitter?" he laughs sourly from the other side of the wall. "Yeah, I guess so. I don't even know if my guy will hold up his end of the deal with Kresh. If he doesn't, I could..." he trails off without any real fear, but I can tell he has doubts. He sounds a little like a man I would know, in that respect.

"Tell me, Shawn," I venture, staring at the wall as though it were his very face. "Are you... military?"

He is stunned to silence for so long, I fear I have just alienated my only friend in this confinement. "How did you know that?" he says, with considerable suspicion. "It don't matter, anywho. Call it what it is, mate: mercenary."

"I am, too," I continue, relieved I have not lost him. "I am a contract escort for Kresh's daughter." Now it is my turn to laugh acidly. It hardly seems fitting to call myself such when I am not the one carrying out the job. "Or I was, until I was put on hostage duty."

Shawn is quiet again, for an equally long time as before. "Yang," he starts. "You just put the words in my mouth."

It takes me a second to put the pieces together, and when they fall into place, they do so with a mentally resounding snap. "You mean - ?"

"I'm one of Trench Mauser's men," says Sullivan. Now I know why his name is familiar! "Is it safe for me to guess you are part of Barney Ross' team?"

"Yes," I say, getting excited. "So that means _you're _Mauser's leverage, to get him to pay Barney!"

"And you're Barney's leverage, to get him to complete the job," finishes Sullivan. He pauses, then whistles. "Man, this is some deep shite." I hear the sound of beard stubble being scratched rattle down the vent. "Yang, do you know how to play cards?"

"What game?"

"Rummy."

"Yes, but it has been a while."

"Why don't we put our minds together," he says with casual conspiracy. "And see if we can't get face t' face for a rousing game, huh?"

I grin, his rebellious spirit inciting my own. "I agree." We may have to stay here for our bargains to be upheld, but that hardly means we have to roll over in every respect.

"How long you think it'll take you?" he queries challengingly. "I bet three days for me."

I look more carefully around the room, this time, seeing beyond the decor and looking at the framework. "Two days, maximum," I say confidently.

The Australian snorts, but in a friendly way. "Asians. So precocious."

"Precocious enough to whip your ass in rummy," I retort easily.

"Promises, promises," he laughs.

We leave it at that. I drag my chair back to its place, and flop down in it, lacing my boots loosely. I am somewhat underwhelmed. I came here less than three hours ago on a plane prepared to do a job. Now, I have to sit on my hands in a comfortable room for three weeks while my friends risk their lives and limbs. It is not fair for anyone involved.

I remind myself that I volunteered for this job. I made the most tactical sense, as my hand combat specialty would be the least useful out of the repetoire the team carries. Sure, I could have been another sure shot and set of hands: a superb soldier in the company of other superb soldiers. But I still would not have been as useful as the rest of the team.

Does that hurt? Yes, a little. Does it affect my worth? Hardly. I am just as good as the rest of the team. It is just this mission in particular. In the next one, it could be Gunnar who is less needed, or Toll. It is the nature of the ever-changing field.

So I put my bruised pride aside, in favor of devoting my mind to finding a way to shake Sullivan's hand. And then beat that hand in a fierce, no-holds-barred game of rummy.

Mercenaries are a competitive bunch.

* * *

**Meera:**

Around noon, I go outside with my gun and get started on Barney's challenge: shoot a bottlecap from twenty yards. I nail a Blemhein's cap to the range, march off thirty big steps, and aim down my sights confidently.

An hour later, I have slung more lead downrange than in the rest of my practices combined, and I am getting frustrated. This suggestion from you is suitably difficult to keep me occupied. I have a sneaking feeling that was you intention.

That pink cap taunts me, a mere speck. "We will meet again," I swear to it with deadly promise.

I holster the gun and let the hot sun chase me inside again.

* * *

January - erm, Airy - is a great sleeper over. At least, by my standards of fun. I hear her car trunk slam and she comes through my ajar door, seemingly straight from work and slightly grimy.

"Hello!" I say cheerfully, hugging her awkwardly because of her bag. She returns the hug, but with less enthusiasm.

"Hey, Meera," she says, sounding tired.

"How was your day?" I ask, looking her up and down. She has considerable dust streaking her dark clothes, and her hair's normal stiff peaks are flattened on one side.

She rubs her temples and huffs a sigh. "Fucking awful. Can I use your shower?"

I point her in the direction of the stalls. Without speaking, she drops her bag, digs out some silks and flannels, and walks off.

I let her go. I know this behavior all too well. When you, Barney, work all day on the plane you act similar to this, despite my assistance. There is little else to do but wait for you to catch your breath. The same holds true now.

So I wait for Airy to resurface. I brew more coffee, dig out all the promised brownies, and turn on the TV for the first time since you left. The cation ray tube stabs my eyes, unused to the light. I settle on the couch and wait.

Airy comes out and is energetic once again. "Nothing like a nice hot shower to wash off the day!" she chirps. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Help yourself," I say. "Brownies, too." This feels natural, even though Airy and I have little history. She and I are the same in a lot of respects, however: tough, against the world in some ways, seeking the collusion of our personalities and society's expectations. Having another woman wandering around is gratifying, more so that I thought it would be. Female energy that I did not know I missed fills the room, and it soothes me in a primal way.

In the village, the women always were doing things together, but excluded me because of my mixed skin. I was kept with the children while they did chores and talked and laughed. I was not given the support system of other women, and now, tasting it for the first time, I find it agreeable.

"Whrere's your sugar, sugar?"

The play on words makes me grin. "Top shelf, second cabinet. What happened to you today? You looked like you got in a fight with a trash compactor."

"One of our box recycling machines croaked today," she sighs. "I'm the smallest person at the warehouse, so it was my problem to climb inside and fix it. I spent all day surrounded by live wires and sharp blades."

I croon sympathetically. "I am sorry."

"S'alright," she says dismissively. "I made it here. The evening's looking up." She toasts me with a steaming mug. "Cheers."

I smile and go back to flipping channels. Yes, it feels very good to have a friend. It feels even better to have a second body to fill the room. "Um, Meera?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure you're aware, but these are gross," she says, waving her brownie with a bite out of it. "What's the expiration?"

"MREs have expirations?" I do not understand. They taste fine to me.

She drops it uncerimoniously onto the counter, and it makes a dry bouncing sound. "I have a proposal."

"Yes?"

"Get on your jammies. We're taking a trip the store."

Sounds like fun, actually. "Jammies?"

"Pajamas. You have to go to the grocery store at this time of night in your jammies."

An odd American custom, but I can acquiesce. "Okay. May I ask why?"

"I'm getting the ingredients for real brownies. You're learning to bake tonight."

"Are they really that bad?" I ask, pattering down the hall.

"Not so much that the MRE ones are bad," she calls from the kitchen. "Just that the fresh ones are so orgasmic."

I blush, paused with my hands on my pajamas. "I see." Having a friend more sexually charged than me can be... an adventure. I change quickly, stick my feet back into my boots, and walk out.

Airy nods approvingly. "Good look for you."

I smooth the front of your hand-me-down shirt. "Thank you."

She looks at my waist. "Um, Meera, what is that?"

I have to look down to see what she means. "Oh, that is my Smith and Wesson .38 Bodyguard."

"Um, why are you carting a holstered gun to the grocery store?"

"Barney made me promise to carry it with me at all times."

Airy nods slowly, still staring at the gun. "I see." She walks over to her bag and pulls out a holster of her own. "I prefer the .45, but hey, different strokes for different folks." She pulls on the shoulder holster, and the gun hangs under her left arm. "Ready, sugar?" she asks with falsetto sweetness.

"Ready, honey," I answer in kind.

She shrugs into her aviator jacket. It looks authentic, right down to the scratches. "It's set to get cold. Do you have a jacket?"

"Yeah." I pull on my leather bike coat from under my bed.

She grins at me. "Even better. Let's go scare the town."

We pile into her VW Beetle and peel off. She introduces me to Beyonce and Lady Gaga. I like Beyonce better. After a few minutes listening to her sing, I start to hum along, then sing along. Failed high notes bring giggle fits, and low notes make us dissolve into snickers. Hand motions are gradually added, to our mutual amusement. "I've found my retirement hobby!" Airy says over the music.

The grocery store is nearly empty, save for one older woman with a fanny pack who keeps ending up on the same aisle as us. Airy flirts with embarassment by imitating her waddling walk when the woman is not looking, much to my muffled amusement.

We peruse the store, and fill a hand basket with ingredients: flour, applesauce, cocoa. Airy keeps a running dialogue about the items, explaining their uses down to the chemical level. When I give her a quizzical look, she admits, "Sorry. Two semesters in culinary school before the military. Some things never die."

She wanders on towards the teas, and misses my smile. Little does she know, she just reminded me of Barney. _Some things never die. _It makes me think about the diamond-hard love in my chest that is sedately awaiting his return, pulsing like embers under breath.

I vow to make you brownies when you get back. Erm, orgasmically good brownies.

We wind up buying measuring cups and a nine-by-nine baking pan on top of the brownie ingredients. "Barney is such a damn bachelor," grumps Airy. "Seriously, are you going to smooth that man out soon, or what? We're not getting any younger, here."

I nearly choke on my inhale. "I'm sorry?"

Airy puts a hand on one hip, counterbalanced by the heavy basket. "Oh, come on, don't play stupid, Meera, it's not an attractive look for you. I've seen the way he stares. He's completely ga-ga over you."

I reel for a minute. It is one thing to think it to myself: it is another thing entirely to hear it from someone else's lips. "I...uh..."

Airy backpedals. "I'm sorry, girl," she sighs. "I get beligerent when I'm tired. I didn't mean to sound so damn rude."

"It is okay," I assure.

"Have you two gotten anywhere with... that?"

I cast my mind back to a few nights ago, on that cliff overlooking the bay, and your hungry lips and hands. I must get slack-faced and blush, because Airy starts to laugh. "You've kissed him! Oh my God, you did it!" She sticks out a fist, which I bump after a second's hesitation. "I was rooting for you, ya know," she admits proudly. "Old Barney deserves a good woman to mellow him the hell out. I can't think of a better woman for the task than you, Meera."

I beam. "Such high praise," I mutter, blushing afresh. "I love him. I am sure he loves me. I am just waiting for him to tell me." Even as I say it, I know it to be true.

Airy's face softens. "I can tell. It weeps from your pores." Hiding her misting eyes, she examines a box of tea and baskets it. "Lady Grey tea for some real fucking ladies."

The fanny pack woman passes the head of the aisle, casting a furtively disapproving glare our way at Airy's choice of words.

We take one look at each other and start laughing. We do not stop until we are doubled over in the aisle, with tears streaming down both our cheeks.

* * *

For some reason, Airy has me hold on to a stick of butter on the way home. Back at the hangar, Airy preheats the virtually unused oven and orders me to find a mixing bowl. The closest thing I have is a World War I German infantryman helmet from your collection, the older variety without a liner.

Airy hefts it critically, poking a finger through the hole near the edge. "Wash that bastard out. It'll do the job."

When I turn back around from the sink, she is sitting blythely at the cargo container table, sipping a Lady Grey.

"Aren't you going to teach me?" I ask, with a hint of panic.

"Nope. I'm going to _advise_ you on technique, and _give_ you my recipe."

I look anxiously at the array of ingredients. "Okay, Airy. I trust you."

"Excellent. First step is done. Now, take the largest cup from the set and fill it with sugar. That is a one-cup measurement. All the other little cups are fractions of one cup. Get it?"

"I get it."

"Good. Level it off with your finger, now, we always use exact measurements when baking. And you know that butter stick I had you hold? Now it's all nice and soft. Put that in with the sugar. Take a fork and mix them."

Airy is an excellent teacher. When I tell her so, she gets a little red in the ears and sips her tea humbly.

At the end of an hour, I have a thorough grasp of the basics of baking and a fair grasp on the recipe for Orgasmic Brownies. When Airy writes down the recipe, I blush yet again at the title. "Barney would get his panties in a twist if he knew I'd taught you that word," Airy snickers evily. She looks at me sternly. "When you two do it, you have to tell me. In gory, graphic detail."

I shrug and put the batter 'bowl' between us for licking. "Do not, as they say, hold your breath."

Airy laughs at my audacity. "You naughty bitch!"

In this intimate kitchen, surrounded by good smells, the word 'bitch' loses its ugly connotations for me. The memories of that hut in Nepal, when the word was spat at me in the vilest way, are permanently robbed of their sting.

For that alone, I count January as my closest friend.

* * *

**Church:**

I consider myself a patient man. I have toured as a sniper, after all. Days of crawling on your belly for miles, covered in a hot ghilly suit, dragging a heavy .50 caliber rifle through bugs, swamp, snakes and thorns breed a brand of saintlike patience that can only come from being in hell.

From a stand of trees about a mile from Barney's hangar, I watch through thermal and nightvision equipped goggles. I've been here for nine hours already, scoping out the place, picking up routines. A bright red blur is moving around inside the hangar for the better part of a day, and I know it to be Barney's little mail order bride, Meera. When she comes outside and shoots some targets around midday, it is confirmed.

"So you taught the little native how to shoot, huh, Ross," I murmur. Leave it to a mercenary.

As the sun slowly treks across the sky, I consider how this fact will affect my plans. I find the impact to be minimal. After all, I plan on giving Meera the surprise of her life. She won't have time to draw, much less get a shot off.

Just after nightfall, a second bright red blur in a VW Beetle rolls up. Right on schedule, January climbs out of the car. I smirk to myself, because it's a perfect setup for a porn movie: a lesbian and a quasi-Nepali have a sleepover.

I had planned on waiting for the lights to go out and the actual sleeping to begin. Instead, fate smiles on me, and not an hour later, the two women get into the VW and drive off.

"My lucky day," I say, seizing the opportunity. There are no security cameras, no one around to watch me lope the mile in three minutes, enter the hangar, and plant a camera shaped like a bolt at a convenient angle to the front door. Once I am sure it is secure in place, hidden, and rolling, I examine the front door carefully.

Ross' paranoia must be strong. The walls are corrougated steel, the door and frame are steel, and the living quarters are protected by a six-digit digital keypad lock. I look over my shoulder, then back at the lock. Yep, the camera has the ideal angle. Now, I just wait for Meera to key the code, and I'll have access.

The day she leaves her little nest on her own, she'll have the suprise of her life waiting for her when she comes back.

As I jog back to my stand of trees, through them, and crank my nondescript black van to life, I have to smile. Things are working out smoothly.

My cell buzzes in my pocket, and I pick it up. "Speak."

"They're here," says my man's sketchy sat-phone voice. "They've acquired the woman, and are enroute to Crios."

"Folllow and do not engage until I give the clear. Confirm."

"Follow with no engagement, confirmed."

"Over and out." I hang up. The night just keeps getting better. I am proud of myself. In the course of 48 hours, I am set up to kill the Kresh woman as per my orders from Langley, and kidnap my enemy's weakest link to make him do it himself.

Give me a fulcrum, says Archimedes, and a place to stand, and I shall move the world.


	28. Chapter 28

**Barney: **

The next morning I notice my eyepatch is starting to smell like sweat due to the buildup of heat in the tent, so I recruit Christmas to help me slap a new one on. "Still red as hell," he observes, taping my weeping eye shut.

"You're telling me," I reply grouchily, eyes stinging. "Mother fuck, that burns. It's one thing if it's a body wound, but eyes? Whole 'nother story." Even that little bit of exposure to light sends knives into my skull.

"Tell me about it, mate."

"Hey Barney, can I call you Patchy?" hollers Gunnar, who is passing around a bag of jerky.

"Only if you want to swan dive into the nearest ice crevasse," I shoot back blythely. Then I pause to let my murderously encouraging smile zing.

"He'd go staight to the earth's core, with a head that hard," jokes Toll, helping Ceasar break down the tent.

"Cleave the hemispheres," concludes Christmas, putting away the first aid kit.

Nadia looks up from her writing pad and pen and shuts down any joy with a Penance Stare to rival the Ghost Rider. "Eef you're all done painting each other's nails," she says sarcastically. "We have eighteen miles to cover before sundown today."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," mutters Toll, stuffing the tent back into the bag and strapping it onto his pack.

"Buzzkill," agrees Ceasar. He shoulders his own pack without needing to roll under it like the rest of us, the damn freak.

We walk on through fresh snow and clear skies, an even mix of bad and good. Good, the storm has passed and we can see past twenty feet now. Bad, the fresh snow makes it harder to move quickly, and causes travel to be slower, even with snowshoes. And sort of in-between, the clear weather makes it easy for potential enemies to see us, too. The team's triggerfingers are itchy all day. We scan the rises and mountainsides like hawks for the metallic glint of enemy guns, but the only glittering is the powder.

"Once we get through the valley between these two mountains," Nadia says, consulting her GPS. "We will be able to see the village."

"Super," mutters Christmas.

"Let me see that," I say, reaching for the device in her hands.

She holds it out of my grasp. "Why?"

"To double check your math." I have one of my own, but hers already is programmed with the coordinates.

"You doubt me?"

Clients can be incredibly infuriating. "No. So mistakes don't cost us time. You know, the three weeks your father is letting you off your leash?"

Nadia draws up staight, fury in her eyes. "I make my own choices. And you work for _me._"

"Wrong," pipes up Christmas with glee. "We work for your father. He signs the check."

Nadia stares at me angrily, but it's like trying to stare down a locomotive. I'm the king of this mountain, and every other one we intend to stand on. "Get used to being pissed at me, Miss Kresh," I warn, stomping on to take point. "Because if I have to chose between your safety, our timeframe, and your convenience...well, you guess which two of the three make the cut."

The young Russian woman resigns herself to glaring holes into the back of my skull the rest of the day. We chase the shadow of the mountains as it moves down the valley, stopping once for a brief protien bar lunch.

"It's kinda pretty out here," muses Ceasar, sitting down next to me.

"When it ain't in a blizzard," I agree, sipping Gatorade and returning it to my inner vest pocket. All liquids freeze solid out here, so we carry them next to our bodies. It's amazing how dehydration can sneak up on you when you're in a cold environment.

I look about twenty feet away to where Nadia has predictably seperated herself from the team, both in distance and through a camera lens. She is snapping pictures of the sun as it flows sluggishly behind the peaks. I sigh, and get up.

"Where you goin'?" asks Ceasar.

"To be the bigger man," I reply. I stomp over to Nadia, coughing to signal my approach in case the crunch of the snow crust did not. She still jumps almost comically high and whirls, the camera flash going off in my one good eye.

"Ow," I say evenly, rubbing the dancing dark spots away. "That thing's a weapon."

She glances down at the device. "Een the right hands, yes." Then remembering she is supposed to be pissed at me, she turns back around and continues to photograph.

I pull the flat canteen out of my vest and offer it to her, by way of peace. "Gotta remember to stay hydrated."

She eyes the canteen sidelong, then swallows her grudge admirably. Popping the top off, she swigs. "Thank you," she says stiffly.

"I'm sorry for embarassing you," I say. "There are nicer ways for me to promise to keep you safe and on schedule."

Nadia chuckles, eyes soft. "You deed embarass me, Mr. Ross. But I have not been the most friendly of clients." She hands me back the canteen. "Eet eez difficult for me to allow myself to be beholden to men." She fingers the camera strap. "I am an anomoly in my country: a woman with a prestigious job, moving up in the world. Eet seems the further I go, the harder eet gets to not push people away. You understand?" she inquires, accent thick.

"More than you think," I reply. Fearless leader: one. Race/gender/social class boundaries: zero. "Ready to move?"

"Yes." We trudge back to formation, and set off.

Sure enough, as we crest the hill and take in the view of the small village nestled in the foothills below us. Smoke curls from the chimneys, and people smaller than ants move about the buildings.

"Crios," confirms Nadia.

I exchange glances with my men. As one, we flip off our safeties, muffling the clicks with our thumbs. Let the real job begin.

* * *

**Meera:**

I see off January quite early, as she has to return to manage the warehouse by eight.

"I think I only slept four hours," she groans with a smile, leaning in to hug me one more time. "Meera, that was the most fun I've had in months. I needed it, girl. Thanks."

"I enjoyed it, too. Come by any time," I reply warmly, avoiding the points of her hair as I return her embrace. "Really. I have much time to kill."

"Hey, don't give me that sad-my-loverboy's-gone tone," she chastises, stepping back to wag a finger at me.

"I'm not!" I say. "After the lecture you gave me? I will do good to emote by the end of the week."

Airy laughs. "Send me your therapy bill. For that, and whatever you witnessed me do in my sleep."

"Are you referring to the Katy Perry concert, or the conversation with George W. Bush?"

"Yes," she says ambiguously, getting into her car. "Bye, girl. Call me!"

"Fo' sho', " I reply, using the slang she spent half night coaxing my linguistically challenged tongue into forming.

Airy taps her chin. "We'll work on it. It's still not natural, coming from you."

I giggle and shut her car door. "See you later."

I wave as she drives off, and the little VW's horn beeps in reply. In the wake of her leaving, the silence looms like a cartoon anvil over my head, waiting to cruch me.

"Back to square one, I guess," I murmur in Nepalese, snapping the quiet like a twig. "But at least now I have brownies and tea." Between chatting and brownies, Airy taught me how to brew as she learned it in England.

Your absence, Barney, seem a little less like knife in my diaphram. As I go inside and settle in for the noon news, I reflect with relief that I am not alone, friendless. "I have Lady Grey to keep me company," I tell the newswoman on the television, toasting her with a mug. This stuff is, as you would say, ah-fucking-mazing.

I grin when I envision your face when you realize I've cheated on coffee. "Sorry, love," I chuckle to the imaginary you. "But I have found someone else. A woman." The thought makes me snicker the rest of the day.

* * *

**Yang:**

"Hey! Hey, Yang! Wake up, mate!" comes the furtive whisper at the vent.

I jump up, instantly tight, and attempt to leap out of bed. The sheets have twisted around one of my feet, though, so I have to hop to regain my balance. It is easy enough: I am a black belt in a half-dozen styles, so whipping my leg around from a semi-balanced postion is nothing.

"What is it, Shawn?" I ask with a hint of grumpiness, having dragged my chair over to the vent.

"Breakfast is coming soon," replies the Australian. "Wanna eat together?"

I scrub my face, but quip, "That sounds very faintly gay, Shawn."

"Testy in the morning, are we?" comes the tease. "Don't worry, Yang. I can score better than a short Asian, if I even swung for that team."

"How do you know I am short?" I retort.

"I can _hear _it," he whispers in a creepy parody of a horror movie. Then he pants heavily down the vent until I start to laugh. "Heads up! Here come the cow bitches with the grub. Freshly butchered, no doubt."

The lock jiggles, and with my fast reflexes and movement I get the chair back in place. "Good morning," I greet the heavy woman politely.

She grunts once, sets down a tray on the floor, and walks out, locking the door behind her solidly. I hear the door next to my room close and lock a minute later, though with considerably more dialogue before.

Once I am sure they are gone, I pounce on my food. There are only plastic utensils and a paper plate and cup. Sniffing for additives, I detect none, but the cabbage is quite strong. With a little collaboration, Shawn and I each sit underneath our common vent, presumably back-to-back, and dig in.

"Yep," drawls Shawn. "You'll be smelling my gift to the porcelin gods all morning, mate."

"Oh my God, Shawn," I laugh. "You are worse than my teammates!"

"Got any soy, Chinaman?"

"Not a drop, sheep farmer."

"You know, this could get pretty heated. Maybe we should slow down."

"Whatever you say, Shawnette."

"You went there?"

"Yes. I went there, and your mom, and your sister..."

"Hey, now!" he says indignantly.

I stop chewing. Maybe I did go too far.

"Gotcha, didn't I?"

"Sullivan, you son of a bitch." We joke because it keeps the walls from closing in. All four of them. Damn, it is going to be a long three weeks, even when I do manage to see Sullivan.

"Yep. And apparently, you've already met her." We fall into friendly quiet, working through the sausage and saurkraut-esque shredded cabbage like champions. "So, is today the day we get to play that hand of rummy?" Shawn asks.

"Let us hope, my friend. Let us hope."

The heavy woman returns in a half hour to collect the plate, counting the utensils with a hard look at me, and leaves.

I listen at the door until I am sure she is gone, and start my thorough search of the room. I work my way around the walls, furniture, and floor like I am learning a new lover, and find there to be a stunning lack of anything useful for getting through that door.

The door.

My head snaps up as I realize I am missing a key piece of information. The door locks from the outside, but there is a handle on my side!

"Kresh, you just made your fatal error," I say aloud. "Hey, Shawn!"

"Yeah, mate? I'm working on my end of things, but no dice."

"I change my bet. One day, at the most."

"Cheeky blighter! Let's see what one of Ross' men is made of, heh?"

* * *

**Barney:**

The village of Crios is medium-sized but tidy. The sod and wattle houses are not aligned perfectly, but they are maintained as only people who have little maintain their possessions.

We encircle Miss Kresh as we walk through the narrow streets towards the middle, open square, eyes and ears peeled for anything threatening. It is difficult to find anything in that category, though. Children run up, touch our guns, and scamper off with peals of laughter. Women gather them into the houses, but not in a fearfully hastened way, more out of perfunctory safety. Men watch from their front doors, keeping their rare and antiquated weapons down, their eyes cautious and measuring. The world has had little to do with this place, and the people show it in their dress and mannerisms.

I make a point of meeting the eye of every man in my range of sight, nodding in a man-to-man way. _Not here to harm. Just passing through. _Most of them nod back, acknowledging the intent.

When we make it to the town square, Nadia steps forward and speaks quietly to the oldest woman I've ever seen on the stoop of the best corner house, who is stripping an indistinguishable small mammal of its pelt. The older woman smiles, showing nearly empty gums, and leans into the house to bark at someone inside.

Apparently, Nadia is expected. The old woman seems to know her, and the villagers do not seem overtly curious. She has obviously make contact here before, possibly several times, all to arrange this meeting with this rebel leader. Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, but strangers make these people skittish. I imagine if we had not had Nadia with us, they would have shot first and asked questions later, even outgunned as they are.

In a moment, a well-aged man with a body roughened by work and clothed against all odds steps to the door. This is the infamous rebel leader Nadia talked up the whole way here? My Russian is rusty, but I get the gist of most of what they say. He looks at Nadia blankly until she introduces herself, and gets a sharp glint in his eyes when he looks at us, geared unashamedly for combat and cold. With a hard tone, he inquires about us. Nadia explains, with a hint of exasperation, that we are her bodyguards and are quite a package deal, but harmless until provoked.

He doesn't sound pleased about it, but Nadia follows up with smoothing-over words and the reminder that his story must be told. I have to smile to myself as she turns the situation around. If she wasn't such a busybody, entitled rich girl, she might even make a decent team member.

The rebel leader loosens up a bit after that, but not much. Motioning us inside, I signal Gunnar and Toll to stand guard. Toll says something in Russian that makes the old woman giggle, and I roll my eyes. The man urges us to sit, but we decline with respectful gestures while Nadia shakes her head. "This place is peaceful," she says tartly, like we're misbehaving children. "The rebels leave their fight at the border."

"Everywhere is dangerous," I reply, peeking into the only other room, which has a pallet mattress. "We're the pros. Let us do our job, Miss Kresh."

She sighs again with exasperation, but begins her interview with the man.

The whole thing is rather dull, really. Nadia shows the man a tape recorder, explains its use, and they talk for three hours. The man gets animated past the scope of my Russian dialect knowledge, but I can detect changes in inflection enough to generalize. War, peace, economics, religion, politics... all of it gets thrown into the mix. How Nadia expects to pick out the article-worthy bits and somehow weave together a story is beyond me.

Yep, it's all rainbows and roses, until...

I hear Toll call a warning, then a man's voice raised in aggravation outside, and Gunnar and Toll start to chorus progressively louder warnings. I don't like the sound of the Russian words I can pick out, or the tone in which they are conveyed. The rebel leader's jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker to mine as though begging for something. I am struck by how old he looks in that moment: a man of such internal fortitude and conviction, brought low by the young man raising hell outside.

"Barney! Problem!" yells Toll tersely.

"Stay here," I order Christmas and Ceasar. They've already snapped their guns into tactical readiness, switching gears like the pros they are. They sidle closer to Nadia, who adds to the growing chaos by insisting, "Do not overreact! Please!"

I whip back the cloth door and scowl at the pacing and raging teenager not feet away. Gunnar and Toll both have their guns on him, and Gunnar is telling him to get on the ground, but he doesn't seemed to care. I zero in on his Glock. His pistol isn't pointing at anyone yet, but he is gesturing with it emphatically. If he tries to point it at any of my men, there is no question as to what will happen. My men tighten their guns to their shoulders.

Nadia exclaims, and I realize the rebel leader is at my back. I turn around like lightning, but he holds no weapon save for the weight of his aged gaze. He nods past me, to the young man.

"He wants to calm down his son," explains Nadia quickly, clutching my sleeve as though to stop me from shooting anyone. "The son thinks your team is here to harm his father." She has an 'I told you so' tone that rankles me.

Giving the rebel leader/father a hard look that crosses language barriers, the kind that says "If you don't diffuse this situation, I will", I step aside.

The father barks his son's name. Seeing his father unhurt, the young man freezes. In a moment that is taut with tension, as my men tighten their fingers on their triggers, the son lowers his gun to his side. He seems to figure out what nearly just happened, and looks slightly afraid. Echoing my men's urgings with considerably more paternal force makes the son cringe slightly.

It occurs to me that the young man is both son and soldier to his father. The combination leaves no room for argument. The pistol clatters to the permafrost ground, and my team and I relax a fraction.

The young man is starting to look slightly ashamed of himself. I get the feeling someone is getting a ass-whopping tonight when company has cleared out. Nadia addresses the rebel leader, asking if she can interview the son as well.

I hold back an incredulous snort. Nadia goes from scared to journalist in 3-point-five seconds.

"Jesus, that was close," I mutter to Gunnar as the son slides into the house, earning a perfunctory cuff on the ear by his father.

"I thought we were gonna have red snow today," the Swede agrees.

Two hours and some wordless apologies later, we leave with an escort of rambunctious children, who wheedle pieces of candy from those who have them as we clear out of the village.

"Living up to your name, Christmas?" I joke as the last child bounds off with a peppermint, hat strings flapping.

"Ho, ho, ho," Christmas replies sarcastically.

"Think you and Lacy'll ever have some munchkins underfoot?" asks Toll.

Christmas shrugs. "Life can only happen." Then, after a pause, "Wait, what made you think of my girl like that: the 'ho' or the kids?"

We all snicker as Toll holds up his hands helplessly, pleading poormouth.

Having settled, Christmas asks, "What about you and Meera, Barney?"

The serious spirit of the question leaves no room for the sharp retort on my tongue, telling them all to buzz off. "We haven't made it that far," I reveal grudgingly. "But like you said, life can only happen."

That train of thought stays with me for the rest of the day as we cover the remainder of our miles. You've said that you love children. As we make camp for the night, I am taken by fantasies of little ones with your skin and eyes tugging at my pants leg, nursing at your breast, bouncing on my shoulders. I help Gunnar set up the tent distractedly. Tiny overalls and jeans, small pink dresses...

"Quit smilin' like a jackass chewing briars, loverboy," smartmouths Ceasar. "You'll be back and impregnating in no time."

"Oh, shut up," I laugh, frogging his rock hard tricep and starting a mock boxing match that tramples the snow around the camp.

Later on, I take first watch to get it over with, and the stark white moon gives almost palpable light. When I wake up Christmas to take my place and crawl into my cold sleeping bag, I fall asleep almost instantly.

The dream you visits me again, nude and regal, in the same clearing shadowed and guarded by twin foothill mountains. The glowing light brown of your skin is stark in contrast to the snow and ice, like a color from summertime appearing by surprise in winter. "Children?" you ask with part mild amusement and part sincere query, your hand fluttering over your bare belly.

"If you want, yes," I reply. Every word feels like it is written between us with the ethereal substance of my soul as ink.

You smile the way you do, all your teeth showing because every smile is worth doing fully. I wake up before you answer, but I feel like I already know.

* * *

**Meera: **

I am getting bored, shockingly. The thought is almost absurd, yet here it is. I am kept occupied with target practice (little bottlecap taunts me, but I am getting closer). Then, with silent apologies to Yang, I realize I have missed a day of defense training. The motions are dynamically rythmic and meditatively engrossing, and I go over them twice to make up for my indiscretion.

Then I run out of things to do.

And as this is a first for me, I find that when bored, I get rebelliously creative. As I tap the code into the door to lock it, it occurs to me that this might be a bad idea. I ignore the notion.

Your truck starts easy enough. I've seen you do it a dozen times. And having read the manual for the vehicle, I know that the fuel level is high enough to sustain a trip into town. I put the thing in gear and happen to see my reflection in the mirror. I look guilty, as though I am doing something wrong. In fact, I am: I do not possess a driver's license. But the beyond beckons to me with mental stimulation, and I cannot help but heed the call.

My foot slips on the gas pedal and the truck lurches forward like a wild horse. I yelp, stomp the brake, and come to a jerky stop. Peering into the footwell, I notice how short my legs look. My boots deaden my ability for fine control of my feet, so I take off one boot and this time, when I apply the gas, I can feel more easily how the pedal moves.

The tarmac is big, and moving this fast under my own power makes my heart stutter a bit. The roads are narrow, and I slow down to negotiate the familar route, even though no one is out this time of day.

I make it to town, and contemplate turning around again. That was the point, after all. To prove to myself I could be daring, and come out unscathed. As I pass a familiar alleyway, I get a notion so decidedly reckless, I have to appease it or it will gnaw at me. It seems my restless side will not be soothed, despite having fed.

"Hello? Tool?" I call to the empty shop, passing the neon signs that buzz faintly in the window.

"Just a minute! Meera, that you?" he calls from the back.

"Yes!"

I hear something in a cardboard box fall and Tool swears, coming out of the storeroom, rubbing his elbow and clutching a small box.

"What were you doing back there?" I ask,, wincing as something else falls.

Tool scowls over his shoulder at the storeroom door, and answers, "Digging out more needles. The bulb is busted, so I can't find shit. How you doin', girlie?"

"I am delightful, thank you," I reply, smiling at him.

"Did you - Meera, did you _drive _here?"

"Yes." Is that not obvious?

He stares blankly at me, then wickedly. "I oughtta call the cops on you."

Recognizing his teasing tone, I put my hands to my mock-horrified face. "Oh, no. Whatever shall I do?"

"Eh, you know an empty threat when you hear one, girlie. Barney would be pissed as hell."

"Maybe jail would straighten me out," I grin. I have watched enough television shows to formulate an opinion.

The grungy tattoo artist scoffs. "Ain't nothin' that can straighten you out." He bids me follow him as he refills his needle case. "What can I do for a pretty girl who darkens my door?"

I blush, but only faintly. "Do you remember what I said last time I was here?"

It takes him a moment to remember, and when he does, he stops refilling his needle case. "So you and Barney...?"

"I love him, Tool. And he loves me. It's time."

He straightens up and looks at me softly, warmly. "I suppose it is." He goes over to a bookshelf and pulls down several binders. I can tell they are design books. "Have you got any ideas?"

"Actually, I already know what I want."

His eyes tease me again. "How about where? Or does the artist get to pick?"

I shake my head and turn around. "Across my shoulders and back. Like Barney's."

"How romantic. What design, exactly?"

As I try to formulate the image in my head into words, Tool's smile grows. "Let me sketch up a few things. Have you got time?"

"Oodles of it."

* * *

**Church:**

I knew my time would come. The little birdy gets restless in her nest, and I watch from my stand of trees as she muddles her way through driving the truck out of the hangar and out of sight.

I rewind my camera's feed, looking for the fruits of my labors. There! Her fingers tap the buttons of the door's lock, and I capture the six-digit code in my memory with a wicked grin.

Finally.

I repack my bag, sling it into my hidden transport van, and emerge from my stand of trees. The door's code keys true, and Barney's living quarters open up to me like heaven's gates. The lock doesn't even know it just betrayed its charges, and gave up their protection.

I look around in disdain. This is where they live? The place is a mess, a mishmosh of eras gone and current focuses. I wander down the hall to my right and discover the walk-in closet, full of clothes. It will do nicely.

I settle in to wait, my tazer primed and my zipties ready. The syringe of roofies is capped, but within reach at my belt. Already, I can hear her shout of shock and fear, and feel her go limp in my hands.

One step closer to that corner office. One step closer to bending Barney over a barrel.


	29. Chapter 29

**Meera:**

I wake up leisurely, curled on an unyeilding surface. I must have fallen out of bed at some point, judging by the grit under my cheek. My first thought is that my hands and feet are tingling. Why? Attempting to wriggle my fingers confuses me. My consciousness trickles further out, and I realize that my shoulder hurts from my position of repose.

Why? I would have moved in my sleep if I had...

Waking a little further, my throbbing temples greet me, as does my extremely sore nose, cheek, and a sting in my neck just under my ear.

Why? Did Yang come over and practice with me and Barney...

My mind is sluggish, like a thick wet towel is draped over it inside my skull, dampening my thoughts. _Why?_

Why can I not move freely?

Why are my eyes open, but my vision dark?

Why do my ribs feel bruised?

_Why...?!_

With a feeling like a sudden fall into icy water, I jerk hard against my bonds. My legs and arms are tied. Panicking, I try to scrabble my head against the floor to rid it of the cloth bag drawstringed over it. My breath and heartrate are trying to outpace each other, like I am running a marathon.

Where am I?

What happened...?

My brain finally clicks into gear and starts playing catchup, and I_ remember_...

_I keyed the code into the door and smiled to myself at the memory of feeling of Tool's ballpoint pen tickling on my back. "Here's what I'm thinking. Be brutally honest, this shit is permanent when it's said and done," the grungy artist had cautioned as he snapped a digital photo of my back and handed me the camera. _

_I had chewed my thumb and looked over every line, every stroke of washable ink. "I think it is my vision come to life, Tool."_

_Now, pushing open the inner door, I slide out of my leather jacket and toss it to my bed. Maybe if I turn right in the mirror before my shower, I can see the two-dimensional beauty beginning to come to life on my back. I walk down the hall to the closet to grab a towel._

_Stepping into the small room had given me a staggering shock. _

_A black-gloved fist had flown from behind the hanging clothes, catching me squarely in the cheek. As I reeled from the force of it and landed awkwardly on the floor, I cried out in sudden pain and instant fear and suprise. _

_My brain extended me the option of fight or flight. The owner of the black fist emerged from the clothes and narrowed my choice. _

_Instinctively, I had kicked from the floor at the closest and quickest option available: the man's knee. My foot caught him behind the knee, and he grunted and fell to a kneel. _

_I chambered my leg again for a kick that would hit him in the torso, but was blocked by solid forearms. As my boot is captured and pressed into a joint lock, my terror grows as I look at the man's face. His head is bald, and his eyes are dead._

_The joint lock makes me snarl with pain, and I try to roll out of it, and the motion reminds me of my gun, pinned under my side, in the holster. I have to roll into the painful hold to get to it, and I manage to get my fingers on the grip. _

_The man sees my motion, and his snake-flat eyes spark with something that makes my gut twist in horror. It is the expression I saw on every one of my rapists' faces: the look of a man who enjoys inflicting pain. The bald man drops my shrieking ankle, and stuns me with a jab to my nose that makes me see stars. Through tear-blurred eyes, I dazedly see him reach to his waist faster than I can draw my gun, and comes out with a black device with two short metal prongs. _

_He jabs the device into my gut, and searing agony locks all my muscles, then causes them to twitch. A tazer! My teeth feel like they are trying to leap out of my mouth as electricity burns along my nerves. _

_The tazer stops for a split second, and just as my body starts to unlock, I feel a sharp, tiny stab in my neck. I yell, and lash out with one ineffectual and misguided right punch, but I am too late. The syringe's plunger depresses, and something ice cold enters my bloodstream. I swing again, with my left fist, and graze the man's chin. He responds with a brutal and methodical beating of my stomach, leaving me breathless and tunnel-visioned from the syringe's contents._

_The tazer clicks back to life, rotting my bones. I manage to choke out, past my clenched teeth, "Bar-...ney..."_

_The last thing I hear is the man's chuckle, low and dark, and that scares me more than anything else. _

* * *

**Barney:**

It is extremely early morning, with the moon still hanging and the sun vying to rise enough to chase it away, casting ever-so-faint dual shadows from the boulders scattered around the clearing where we pitched the tent. Ceasar is quiet and still outside, on watch, I know, from a perch on a rock that radiates slight heat from the previous day. Peaceful.

Not even the wind is blowing when Something nudges me awake. I am not being touched by anything but my sleeping bag, which is warm and comfortable, but that Something nudges me yet again and voices itself: Something is wrong.

I know this Something. And hopefully, I have acknowledged it in time to save my life.

My good eye flies open to the sound of Ceasar's yell from outside. The sound is warning, pain, and channeled fear all in one, and it wakes everyone in the tent at once. In nanoseconds, we mercs are leaping out of our bags and laying hands on our guns.

Ceasar hollers again, this time in concentrated, landing-a-blow way. I hear his huge fist make contact with someone as I rip open the tent's zipper door. For a split second, we are all clustered at the entrance, each trying to get out first in our haste. Ceasar's gun goes off, and a man dies with a scream.

"Christmas!" I bark, knowing he'll understand my meaning. My friend backs away and tears back the divider sheet between us and Nadia, and I see him push down her surprised form and cover it protectively with his own.

Finally, having wasted three crucial seconds, Toll, Gunnar and I spill out of the tent and start to rush in different directions. The space we had been milliseconds ago is perfortated by automatic fire, which I return, aligning gun, shoulder, and sights in one solid movement.

Ceasar is struggling with two men, and they are keeping him too busy to use his gun. The dead one is on the ground in a spray pattern of blood. Three more are advancing on the tent, their steps tactically measured and their guns unwavering.

My insides darken. It feels like black ooze starts to weep from my cells and saturate my very soul like oil, covering my lungs and sinking into the crevasses of my heart. It feels like my heart has grown an extract ventricle to accomodate my rage. I want to kill them. I want to kill them dead, spatter their blood on the snow, because they fucking _threatened _my men and me. The Schizo rises...

I slide into home base behind a boulder that barely covers me, and crouch down beyond the spark of rock fragments spewed by ricocheting bullets. In the next pause, I rear up and return fire, catching one man in the chest and another in the shoulder. They both scream and topple, but I can tell by the way the chest shock affected the man that he is wearing Kevlar. It'll still take them both a moment to get back up.

"They're wearing vests!" I roar into the night, knowing my men would hear me.

Gunnar pops up from his own cover and yells as he returns fire to the one who is left standing, who ducks to cover. Ceasar manages to push back his assaillants long enough to level his souped-up shotgun at the belly of one, and his highly doctored round blasts out the guts of the man onto the pristine snow, Kevlar be damned. My teeth bare as the blood shows black under the bright moon, and my visceral lust is enflamed. Just as the second one brings his gun up, aiming at Ceasar's head, Toll springs out and nails him in the head with a three-round burst from thirty feet away.

Three men are dead, and the two I shot are getting back up. I aim to remedy that.

The four of us dash to converge on the two men alive in the snow with coordinated intent. Gunnar and Ceasar step on the hands that hold the guns, and Toll and I follow up with synchronized strikes to their heads with the butts of our guns. Without communication, we all know to take them alive, so as to get answers out of them.

I take a second to shut my eyes tight and forcibly shrink the imaginary extra ventricle into nothing, tamp down my rage, shut away the Schizo. When I need him again, he'll be ready and waiting. When I open my eyes back up, the men are allowing themselves victory.

With marginal relief and a coping grin, Gunnar fist bumps Ceasar. "Like champs," approves the Swede.

"See my rounds?"

"Really sweet, C," I agree. "Patent those bitches."

Toll's eyes suddenly harden again. "Six total."

I do a mental head count. "Five here," I say, and my stomach drops. Fuck, I lost track of one when he ducked for cover. I whirl around, and he already has one foot in the tent, some fourty feet away.

"FREEZE!" commands Toll, whipping his gun to bear, closely followed by the rest of us.

The man turns just his head to look at us, and seems to consider the word, as well as the guns trained on him. In that second, with the cold wind taking a swipe that is not registered by adrenaline-steeped skin, my finger tightens on the trigger. Make a move I don't like, go on, try it... He drops his gun. Raising his hands and pulling up his ski mask in one motion, he shows he is American, with a paramilitary crewcut. "Do not shoot," he says cooly. "I have a message for you."

I process the mild surprise quickly. "From who?"

"Mr. Church. I believe you two are acquianted."

I stiffen with much heavier shock. Church? What would he take so much effort to say? What about? Something at the back of my mind tickles at me, trying to get my attention, but I am occupied.

"How about you get acquainted with my Mark VIII rounds, bitch?" challenges Ceasar.

"What's the message?" I ask, glancing down at the two men with pinned weapon hands. They are out cold, but Gunnar is taking no chances. He still has his weapon pointed at them, because pros are pros and there is no safety unless your enemy is dead (and even less if somebody kills them for you).

The American is disconcertingly unafraid. It's starting to piss me off. "I have a satellite phone in my pocket," he continues.

"Don't you fucking move," snarls Christmas, appearing from the tent. I can hear Nadia whimpering faintly, but she's alright or Chirstmas would not have left her. Christmas reaches around the man and puts a wicked knife to his throat, even as he deftly pats down the man everywhere within reach, feeling for the phone. I know without doubt that the knife is sharp enough to cut a dropped hair, and that if the American sent by Church so much as twitches, he'll suddenly find himself into two seperate pieces.

Christmas uses two fingers to procur the phone. "This is a CIA-grade phone," he announces, tossing it around the man and across the distance to me.

"You're CIA?" I ask, snatching the phone out of the air. "Church sent CIA to assualt us? Why? To try to assassinate Nadia?"

The American shrugs. "Hardly. Nadia tethers you here. We threw a party to get your attention." He glances at the device in my hand. "That should ring in about ten seconds. You'll _definitely _want to answer it."

I look down at the phone contemplatively. "Is it rigged?"

The American just smiles.

Asshole. I hate playing Jeopardy with bombs. "Everyone, back up, just in case," I tell my men, and they backpedal about twenty feet. Sure enough, the thing rings. I tense, expecting to be blown away. The American chuckles at my expression, earning a brisk cuff from Christmas.

"This is Barney Ross," I answer the phone. That Something nags at me, like I have forgotten...

"Hey, Barney, buddy," says Church merrily. Even the distance and faint static cannot disguise his smugness.

"Lot of effort, Church," I reply evenly. "Care to tell me why I had to put down three of your boyfriends?"

The son of a bitch starts to laugh. "I have Meera."

And with a feeling of evisceration, I finally understand what has been nagging me. "Oh God." The words slip my mouth without my bidding, and all the blood drains from my face.

"You have twenty-four hours to deliver evidence of Miss Kresh and Mr. Kresh's deaths to me," says the CIA operative. "Or I start taking serious liberties with Meera."

"Let her go," I whisper. I wonder if the words carried over the signal until he answers.

"Not a chance. I have lots of questions for her that I so..._desperately..._need answered. That should keep us occupied until you kill the Kreshs." The drag of his tone sends cold shivers up my spine. He's trying to fuck with me, and it's working. "I'll be waiting, Barney," he cooes. The line goes dead.

The device drops to the snow. The men are staring at me with deepset worry. "What is it?" asks Christmas.

I gingerly lower myself to the snow beside the phone, my knees indenting the cold powder.

"Barney?"

"Barney!"

A cold hand grasps my shoulder, and I realize it's Ceasar. "What is it? Answer, Ross!" insists the huge man.

"Church has Meera," I rasp. "And if we don't kill Nadia and her father in twenty-four hours, he kills her."

The only movement is the solemn mountains breeding swirls of snow across the frozen campsite. "But if we kill the Kreshs," says Gunnar. "Yang dies."

"So we're screwed," concludes Toll.

"Indeed," interjects the American with a laugh. "You are."

Red and white rage flood my body and mind, washing away every gram of sympathy or morality I might have had. The Schizo lends a parting gift. "Kill them."

Three shots ring out under the cold white moon.

* * *

It took all of the guys to hold me back, and Christmas to talk me out of attempting the hike, hopping into the plane, and hell-flying Stateside to kill Church and rescue you myself. They finally let me up once they'd gotten me to see straight and stop shouting at them. As Christmas detailed, from his prone position to better see my pinned face: One: I would not make it in time. The hike is at least two days. I'd freeze, starve, and/or get Yang murdered and dumped in a ditch. Two: I have a cell signal here, which is necessary if I want to coordinate your rescue, because we can't fucking leave, thanks to Kresh.

So I dig up a modicum of calm, ask to be let up, and get to work.

Day has fully come, and I have never been more alert, awake, active - or in so much agony. My very bones feel like they're white-hot with urgency. The loom of my time constraint taints my every thought, motion, action. I am so afraid that I will lose you, I literally cannot allow the emotion to come to bear. It would paralyze me, and you don't need a paralyzed savior right now. But I have a loose plan.

I have to get ahold someone I trust, someone really, obscenely good at slinging lead. I have to speak to this person, and put him on the trail of you and Church, and give this person enough monetary incentive to exact every deliciously horrible thing I want done to Church, up to and including a painful death.

I have a list of people who might fit the bill. None of them seem to want to answer their damn phones. I leave messages. I pace and wait for my phone to ring. I strangle the air with a free hand when someone on the other end shits all over me.

To a Vienna-based FBI agent in deep cover: "I need to get in contact with...hello? Hello?"

In German, to a tavern owner: "When was the last time you saw him?"

To an illegal arms fencer, through his landscaping business front: "If you tell me where he is, I'll make sure he pays you."

I'm losing patience. I'm losing _time. _

So I watch with disjointed interest as Nadia starts to walk around with a first aid bag. I'm losing my grip, so I dial her father on a very long shot. "Mr. Kresh."

"Mr. Ross," comes the reply in a thick, stuck-tongue accent. "How eez my daughter? I trust all eez well."

"Not as well as you might think," I say, pushing my balaclava up to run my hand through my hair. "I need to return to the States. Something bad has happened."

"Out of ze question," replies Kresh. "My daughter's work eez not just critical to her career. In my line of work, this trip means much money to me."

"Just what do you do?" I snap, fingers going white on the receiver. "Sell guns? Child soldiers?"

"Information, Mr. Ross, is more valuable than either of those."

It clicks for me with a resounding snap. Kresh refused to sell Church intel: on what, I don't know or care. It doesn't matter what the intel was about, only that it was good enough to make Church shit himself when he couldn't have it. Now, Church has a gun to your head, to get me to kill the only two people who have access to this mysterious information.

"You intend to sell the rebels out to each other," I murmur incredulously. "That's why you're so eager to have Nadia on this trip. You want to play every side against each other. Hundreds will die!" The asshole played me from the start, feigning reluctance and disproval, like this trip was all Nadia's idea.

"Do not pretend to have a conscience, mercenary," snarls Kresh. "My answer is no. If any of you five men leave my daughter's side, I will kill de Asian in my care, without hesitation. I have eyes on you all de time."

The line goes dead. I have the strong urge to chuck the phone at the nearest boulder, and maybe follow up with a few rounds.

"Geeve that back!" shouts Nadia, trying to retrieve something in Christmas' hand. She overreaches and falls to the snow, dropping gauze pads like fat snowflakes.

"Barney, look at this," Chirstmas says, holding out the thing in his hand. It is about eight inches long and silver, shaped like a cigar.

I suck in a cold breath. "Laser pointer?"'

"The kind used to signal aircrafts."

"And strong enough to blind me from the ground," I finish angrily. Striding across the frozen tundra, I lift Nadia by the front of her jacket with both hands. "Why did you blind me?!" I shout in her face, spit flecking.

Christmas puts a hand on my arm, not trying to stop me, but keeping me in check. The Schizo howls for violence, but not before I get answers.

Nadia flinches and tries to break my hold with weak hands. "I didn't- I- "

I shake her, and watch with pleasure as her head lolls. "Answer me, girl!" My vision starts to go red.

"Barney!"

"Chill out, man!"

When I regain my senses, Nadia is coughing hoarsely and sitting on a rock, and I'm on my back in the snow. The guys are in various states of anxious waiting: sharpening knives, cleaning guns, eyeing me with watchful distance and considerable concern. They're waiting on something to do: for their damn leader to get his shit together enough to lead.

They can't do anything about Yang, or Meera, or me. And I can see it constricting them on the inside like pythons.

Christmas is rubbing his split knuckles, which match the throb in my jaw. "Had to, mate," he says without judgement. "You're losing your shit."

I stare up at the pale blue sky with my one good eye, and exhale. A single tear freezes to my cheek. "Meera's being tortured by that sick bastard _right now, _Lee."

"Your anger is misplaced. Meera's situation has got nothing to do with Nadia blinding you."

"I didn't (cough) blind you!" insists Nadia.

The edge of my vision goes pink in response, and Christmas nonchalantly leans on my shoulder, keeping me on my back. "Stay there for a minute. The snow is lovely," he says to me. "You have ten seconds to explain yourself, Miss Kresh," Christmas says coldly.

Every hard stare in the clearing turns to her, and the young Russian woman rubs her throat nervously. "I did not blind you, Mr. Ross."

"I think that the chances of you having a green laser and me being blinded coincide pretty snugly," I retort.

Christmas pushes me down again. "Misplaced anger," he hisses.

"Check the color of de light, Mr. Christmas," begs Nadia. "Please. It will prove my innocence."

Christmas digs the laser out of his pocket and clicks it on, pointing it at the side of a nearby rock. The beam and dot projected are red. "Not green," he states.

"No shit, Sherlock," I huff. "Okay, okay, can I get up, now?"

"If you're calmed down." My friend gets up and offers me a hand to my feet. "If you didn't blind Barney, who did?"

The entire group is quiet, thinking. Toll snaps his fingers. "I got it!" He gets off his rock and jogs to the snowdrift that covers the bodies of Church's six dead CIA agents.

"I think I get his drift," says Gunnar excitedly. He starts to help Toll go through the men's pockets. In a minute, the Swede utters a triumphant cry and procures a silver cigar-shaped device from the American messenger's pocket. When it clicks on, I recognize the green dot all too well.

"Son of a bitch," I marvel. "The CIA has been on us since we hit Russian airspace."

"And ever since," concludes Ceasar. "But that still don't explain why you've got a laser, Nadia."

"I wanted to blind my father's UAV drone," says Nadia.

All of us mercenaries stiffen, glance at each other, then look up in quick succession. "Son of a bitch." This time, Christmas voices the group's sentiment. "An unmanned arial vehicle?"

"My father uses the drone to watch me, to keep me safe, and make sure my protection does what they are supposed to do," details Nadia, looking at me with a measure of fear. "I bought the thing to attempt to get his eye off of me, but the drone eez too far up for me to see, much less laser."

"And why would you want daddy dearest's loving eye off you?" queries Gunnar sarcastically. Any hint of attraction he might have had for the girl is gone.

"Because I don't want to do this anymore!" cries Nadia, tearing up. "I hate that he takes my art, my job, my _life_ and uses eet against others! I hate that he steals my information and sells eet to the highest bidder!"

Untouched by her emotion, even though the answers put some worries to rest and give us solid problems to work on, each man mulls this over for a few minutes while she cries herself out.

"We've got a clock running out on us," I say with hollow heaviness.

"Have you gotten hold of anyone yet?" asks Ceasar softly.

"No one." I stare hopelessly into the mountains, a prison for my body and my soul.

Christmas stands next to me, his gun at an easy ready across his body. "There is one guy. Two, in fact."

"Name 'em," I say, pausing with my fingers over the buttons of the satellite phone.

He does. And I chock it up to my ground-down spirit that I find his suggestion sensible.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: Hey, strangers! It's been a really long time, I know. Thank you for your encouragement, and for not abandoning me. Things are picking up pace, but I know ya'll can keep up. Did you know they're making an Expendables 3? I know!**

**So take a break from studying for exams, just for ten minutes, and let your mind retreat. Trust me, it does wonders. Hugs to all!**

* * *

I am a part of the forest I quietly move through, a cog in the wheel of nature that seamlessly rotates to bear and continues the cycle. The breeze blows cold on my exposed, camo-painted face, but I pay it no mind. Winter is riding down on the east coast like a Revelations horseman, and I am trying to fill my tags before the season is out.

My experienced eye probes the forest floor, looking for disturbed pine detrius, indentations, signs. I find the continuation of the deer tracks I have been following for the better part of the day heading for the abandoned farm pond on the back of my property. This buck is massive if I judge by his tracks, and I've laid eyes on him just once this season, and only long enough to count the tines through the morning fog. He's been a ghost ever since: seeming to vanish every time I get close. He's not from my local herd: he's prowling for does, his neck swollen with rut. And now, for the fifth day in a row, I'm prowling for him.

I've spent days learning his patterns, gauging his moods, gleaning his personality from the signs he leaves. He eats from a different place every day, never the same place twice, and steers as far from corn feeders as possible. He is cautious, even when it comes to doe-in-heat urine and bleats, and skulks at the edges of his senses looking for me. He tends to paw the ground with his right forehoof when he feels something is off. He drinks from the same place every morning, though, and that is where I am following him now.

I can smell the water as I approach the pond, walking with a ball-blade-heel motion of my feet to minimize noise. Bucks this old have a sixth sense about the presence of humans. But over a lifetime of hunting animals and humans alike, of trial and error and experience, I have mastered the ability draw my aura within myself, instead of letting my eagerness for the hunt project it like a beacon to the furtive object of my attention. I am little more than the dying leaves' stomata expelling carbon dioxide like a death gasp...

On the opposite side of the pond I can hear the buck rustliing through the brush. From the other side of a bank of rushes, I hear his hooves squish the clay mud, and after a utterly silent pause in which I can envision his palmate ears flicking, he lowers his stately head to drink.

I take my chance to slide my gun to the ready at my shoulder, and rise up over the rushes _just enough_ to glimpse his haunches, bunched from his dipped head. As planned, I have the ideal broadside shot, and I bring my cheek to my gun to take advantage before the wind shifts.

This is a dance between man and beast started before measured time and history. It is a dance every animal understands, and deep down, every man, too. I have earned the right to take this buck's life, by the rules of the dance. I level my eye to the scope.

My cell phone rings loud enough to make both me and buck jump, but the deer jumps comically higher. He scrambles off into the woods, and I sigh. It'll take days for him to calm down enough to be seen. I tear off a glove with my teeth and withdraw the cell from my pocket. Work takes preceedence over pleasure, in my occupation, and that means keeping the cell on audible even in the most sound-sensitive situations.

"Hello," I say into the phone. It is a statement, not a question. I am telling the caller I am there, because if they have managed to get this number, they know who I am. They know what I do.

"Booker. It's Barney Ross," comes the voice coated in static.

I crouch comfortably in the reeds. "Good to hear from you, Barney."

"I wish it was under better circumstances."

I frown. Barney's tone is odd. Soldiers like he and I hide our real feelings in direct inversion to their intensity. Knowing that, I would quantify Barney as pretty wrecked and extremely desperate. "Elaborate."

"A few months ago, I was in Nepal with the team working a job. I come across this - gorgeous woman in this shitty little hell hole. She was in really bad shape."

I grunt. Our definitions of bad shape are pretty much the same, and include dead-on-feet, losing limbs, and FUBAR. We've seen action together, after all.

"But there was just something about her, Booker," continues Barney, the static sprinkling his words as they spill out like an upturned bottle. His telling comes with the ease of a consumed heart simply expelling itself, like lungs do air. "I... I couldn't leave her there."

That tone. It's a new one from Barney, but not to my ears. A man in love. I grunt again, to myself. About time.

"Meera - that's her name, Meera - heals up inside and out. We get along really well, better than great, and then get close." Mercs have precious few people 'close' to them, because 'close' means 'soft spot' to enemies. Barney is head over heels. "Fast-forward to few days ago. Trench Mauser shows up, offers me a job he can't finish in Russia, and he hints that there's a good reason. I accept and make plans." That explains why I can feel the feral wilderness and hear the wind howling across the tundra on his end of the connection.

"When does this get interesting?" I query factually. There's a damn good reason he tracked down my number, which is purposefully difficult to find, and called me.

"A couple hours after that, Church calls me up. Offers me the flip of the same job: kill the client. I refuse, but he overhears Meera and insinuates a threat, the sleazy bastard." His voice hardens like diamond, all sharp edges and crystalline hate. Church is no sweetie-pie in my mind, either. I have several friends aside from Barney that he's muscled and pushed around, and I don't like his adgenda's smell. He's barely tethered to the CIA anymore, and an unfettered man with a secret gameplan is dangerous.

"Here I am in Russia, doing the job, and who should call me? Church."

I frown. I don't like where this is going.

"He's got Meera," chokes Barney. I swear his voice cracks, like a piece of the arctic shelf falling into the ocean. "My client's father has got a gun to Yin Yang's head, making sure I can't leave to go save her. If I don't send proof that the clients are dead in around eighteen hours, he's going to kill Meera slow." He gives what sounds like either a dry sob, or perhaps a hitch of breath from the wind that slices the connection, then reforms it. Shit, this is bad. People like us do not form attachments, romantically speaking. When someone like this Meera person falls from the sky and snatches up a merc's heart like a hawk, it is understood that person is untouchable. That person becomes a part of the merc, to be protected like a vital organ.

Too bad the rest of the world does not abide by that sentiment.

"Damn, Barney," I say, drawn out of my shell by sympathy.

"So this is where you come in," he continues, his voice flat. He's emotionally drained, which is saying something for a man whose job is to remain emotionless. "I need someone to do what I would do if I were there: rescue Meera. _Please._" Barney never begs. Never. This woman is something special, and Barney is more than a little afraid. "I'll pay you every penny of my cut of this mission if you find her and get her safe."

I study a handful of dry reeds under my hand, and pick them apart at the joints absently, thinking. When I answer, I commit myself body and mind to the mission, because missions deserve nothing less than a soldier's all. "I accept." A friend would do it for free, but I'm a mercenary. Money is the name of the game.

Barney exhales explosively. "I'll wire you the money when I get ahold of a computer. Church called this phone from a cell. If you can triangulate the tower use, you might be able to find him. And check my security camera feeds in the hangar. They're self-contained and hidden in the packing crates in there."

"I'm on it," I say, standing from my autumnal nest. "How much time do I have?"

Barney checks his watch. "Seventeen hours, forty-six minutes." As I set my own watch, I hear his boots stomping through snow. "I've tried to get ahold of other people to do this, Booker. But no one cares, and no one is qualified enough to deal with rogue CIA, not really. You're her only hope."

I smile faintly because I know he's right. Fact, not arrogance. "Consider it done. I'll call you. And Barney?"

"Yeah?"

"If I get the chance to kill Church, should I take it?"

I can practically hear his face settle into the lines of loathing. "Hell, yes. Kill him dead."

I smile again. "You got it."

* * *

**Booker:**

It takes me two hours to get back to my house, tearing through brush like Tarzan, splashing across streams and leaping fallen logs. I have a time constraint. God only knows what a man like Church is capable of when left alone with a woman like Meera. Well, God and my imagination.

I cross my backyard, the target range's dirt piles, jump the small herb patch, and bang through my back door into the kitchen. "Hu-Nee," I call. "I need my third go-bag from the hall closet, pronto."

My wife sets down the plate she's been drying without hesitation. Knowing the contents of the bag, she comments, "An American job?" even as my tone spurs her to swiftness. Bless my wife. She asks no moronic questions. "Odd."

"You're telling me," I reply, not bothering to take off my boots as I walk briskly to the office. My wife is not the type to begrudge tracks on the floor, even though she keeps a clean house as only an Asian can. One of the many things I love about her.

"What else you need?" she calls from across the hall, her accent mulling the words.

"Do you have another first aid kit? The one I've got only covers one person." I get the feeling every wasted minute is another drop of Meera's blood. Church is a sadistic bastard, from what I've heard. I open the computer with a slide of my finger across the screen, and get to work. The powerful modem whirs to life, then hums to full power.

"Yes, it's in our bathroom closet." She walks to the bathroom quickly, and rummages. I hook my cell up to the computer in two places, and in seconds have found Barney's satellite phone signature. He's in Russia, close to the border, deep in the mountains. A really harsh place to be.

"Do you need a set of woman's clothes, too?"

I pause my tapping on the keyboard. "Perceptive thing, aren'tcha?"

"I was guessing, really. Someone from old days?"

I reply as I take the last incoming call from the sat phone and put my motherboard to work on finding its trail of towers. "Barney's woman was kidnapped by the CIA. Yes, to the clothes." Good idea: I have no idea what state Meera will be in if (when, rather) I find her. I jump up while the computer does its thing and slide open the doors to the closet that houses the gun cage, selecting my favorite Uzi from its cradle.

Hu-Nee's tiny feet cross the floor of the master bedroom, and the door for her bureau creaks. "I see." She can infer an entire universe from my clipped sentences. Another thing I love about her: she gets the story on her own, without interrogating for details. "What else?"

The computer plucked the call list from Barney's phone out of the cloud with ease. I'll use the laptop in the car to triangulate Church's phone while enroute to Barney's hangar. I download the fruits of the computer's labor to my phone, remove the cords, and stride to the door. "Nothing. I'll be back in a day or less." One way or another. It would surprise me, frankly, if I failed this job, but stranger things have happened. I can't afford to be lax. Barney would be hard to convince of my sorrow.

Hu-Nee meets me at the garage door, grabs me by the collar, and kisses me hard, stopping me in my tracks. I kiss back just as hard. I demand much from her, but she's taken my lifestyle and profession in stride, and never looked back. She insists I'm worth it. I don't see it. When she does ask me for something, like this kiss, I know it's for a good reason. I always do my damndest to give it to her.

"Happy hunting, Lone Wolf," she whispers, withdrawing.

I give her a brand of smile that only she is allowed to see, shoulder my bag, and enter the garage. The nondescript black SUV with offroad tires and a bull bar squeals backwards out of the garage, and I throw up clouds of dust from the drive on my way out.

* * *

**Barney:**

"Trench, you son of a syphillis-ridden whore, pick up your fucking phone!" I menace from half a world away.

It works. Insulting mothers always works. "Kiss your mother with that mouth?" asks the Austrian snidely.

"Guess where I am?" I growl with false cheer.

"Russia," he replies with equally false gameness.

"Correct," I continue silkily, staring generally west, trying to send my hatred across three continents. "Guess who I just got done killing?"

"The same CIA bastards working for Church that fucked me and my team over for a week," he states.

"Oh-for-two. I guess a week is about how long it takes for your balls to freeze off out here?"

"They're willey assholes!" he defends. "So if you took care of the extenuating circumstances, why are you shitting on my day?"

"Kresh took Yang as his hostage to make sure we do our job. Sound familiar?"

"He's got one of my men held so that I pay you. Yeah, sounds like his trump card."

"This means I can't leave Nadia's side, or his magical UAV will tell him, and Yang dies."

"Ah. The UAV explains a lot. Nadia didn't tell us that during our short coexistence."

"This poses a serious fucking problem, you see."

"Why is that?"

"Because Church wants the Kresh's dead, because they won't sell intel to the CIA anymore. Oh, and to make sure that I kill them both, Church just kidnapped Meera." I pause to let that sink in.

Trench and I are not, repeat, _not _friends. We've butted heads, competed, and kicked each other's asses for so long that opposition is ingrained in our brains. We've been oil and water since the day we met, and bear the deep sort of grudge for each other that only history can give. The one and only thing that we share is our loose, black-souled, and blood-thirsty brotherhood: the fraternity of mercenaries.

We may hate each other's guts, but we'll honor that brotherhood. After a full minute of silence, Trench's reply is simple and without drawbacks. "What can I do?"

If my heart weren't being torn apart at the seams, I might have smiled. "I've secured the best man stateside I could find to rescue Meera. You can back him up. I'll leave it up to you to coordinate from here. The number is..."

* * *

**Booker:**

I hit the interstate like a bat out of hell, tapping keys on the laptop with one hand and driving with the other. I set the laptop to triangulation, but it's going to take some time with the RAM being less than my home computer. Meanwhile, I'll visit Barney's hangar and eyeball the security cameras. Maybe they caught something useful that will help me find Meera and Church quicker. It's an hour long drive, during which I meditate on the situation with tactical determination. The mind is the greatest weapon, after all. The mind, and my Uzi.

The phone rings again. I glance at the number, then pick up. "Hello."

"I guess you've heard Barney's sob story?" queries a thick Austrian accent from the other end.

"Trench Mauser," I greet neutrally. I've no ill will towards the man, even though Barney and he have been fueding since laying eyes on each other. Trench is one of those men with whom I can pick up where I've left off years earlier. "Yeah, I'm working my leads now. What's it to you?"

I hear him sigh in a put-upon manner. "I've been sent to back you up."

"God help me," I groan. I scrub my face and rearrange my plans. "Can you meet me at Barney's hangar in about an hour?"

"Yeah, me and my guilt trip will see you there. We can compare intel then."

* * *

**Meera:**

Out of sheer willpower and desperation, I continue to work my bonds for...hours. It has to be hours, but I don't make any progress. The sharp edges of the zip cuffs bite my skin afresh with each movement, and my fingers get slick with what I know is blood.

This feels like the hut. I'm back in Nepal in my mind, even though I'm tied up on the floor here. This silence is killing me. No sound at all. My prickling limbs to keep me company. My eyes covered. My stomach and electricity burns aching.

I feel like I'm waiting for my next rapist to walk through that door.

I whimper before I can stop myself, and rest my forehead on the ground defeatedly. I let the tension drain from my quivering muscles. "Barney," I quietly beg the floor. My hot tears eventually soak through the mask and plaster it humidly to my face.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: Phew! I wrote this today in celebration after securing an 94 on one of my exams. Huzzah!**

**To those going back to the school grind tomorrow: May the curve be ever in your favor! *holds up three fingers***

**Long chapter, I know, but I finally cross several story lines with it. Get ready for some serious explosiveness next chapter, and some equal explosiveness in this one. Brace yourselves.**

* * *

**Meera:**

The long time that passes seems to never end. I lay prickling, scared, and blind on the floor with my injuries chorusing. I alternate between listening to them and wishing for Barney to come. With my ankles and wrists tied together on a short leash (hogtied, I believe Barney calls it), I cannot explore the room.

What is my love doing now? I try to imagine him surrounded by snow, which I have only ever seen pictures of. Does he know I'm in danger?

I flinch mightily as the measured sound of boots walking down the hall reaches my ears. The horrors of Nepal surface strongly. With a clench of cold fear in my heart, I squeeze my sightless eyes shut and beg Whoever is listening to please, let those boots keep walking, please, don't let him come in here...

The doorknob rattles with a lock, and I feel the draft as it swings open soundlessly. "You're awake then," comes a male voice. The tone is calm, but it belies a ruthlessness that is almost palpable. "Good." He steps closer, slowly walking around me, and I feel his shadow pass over me. My senses are on tenterhooks, reaching for any clues as to his intent. When he is exactly behind me, he kneels slowly, as though testing my nerve. I try to muster some semblance of bravery, but it sputters like a wet match. I don't dare move, but every fiber of me tenses when I hear the sound of a switchblade.

Almost experimentally, he draws the razor-sharp blade across my forearm, drawing blood and pain. I shout and jerk, half-rolling away.

Now the knife is at my neck. "You know how sharp this knife is now," threatens the man lowly. "And that I like to use it. Don't you dare move."

I bite back a whimper and try to still my shakes.

The next shocking sensation is a prick of a needle in my inner arm. I gasp and my whole body tightens, but the syringe does its job quickly. "What was that?" I whisper.

"Something to heighten your awareness," says the man. I hate that I cannot see him, or what he is doing.

The needle's contents are slowly spreading in my veins as he shifts, his boots gnashing the wood floor. The intimacy of this situation is frightening, unwelcome. I am blind and bound, yet tied to his every motion, every whiim. The only sensation I have is what he gives me. It is eerily like sex, or more accurately, like rape, even though he has barely touched me. Every emotion and physical sensation is heightened because of him, and _not wanted_.

With a flick of the blade faster than it takes the fear to grab ahold, he seperates my wrists and ankles, and my relief is instant, even though the limbs are still tied. But he has still got a knife, and neglects to remove the bag from my head. Even though I cannot see him, I can _smell _violence on him, and my heart jackhammers in response. It rolls off of him like thunderclouds down a mountain, swift and merciless and unforgiving. It cares not who it flattens, ruins, scatters. It cares not who it hurts.

He roughly takes me under one arm, hauling me to my feet. My legs barely hold me, as they are almost numb and awkward due to my tied ankles. With a jerk, I am dragged after him blindly, shoulder wrenching as it takes my weight. He hauls me easily, like a worthless bag of leaves that he outweighs times-and-a-half. "What are you doing?" I venture to ask shakily. As though he would answer. Do snakes answer mice?

The silence is stunning, threatening, oppressive. "Please..." Please answer? Please stop? Please let me go? All of these, yet none of them. I do not know what I'm begging for, so complete is my terror, but I do it anyway. My fear speaks for me, inarticulate as an infant's wails.

He does not answer, only shoves me against a wall face-first. The force he uses is gleefully unnecessary, like he was waiting for an excuse to excise violence, and I grunt as my head bounces off the wall. This man is very familiar with pain, and at complete ease with inflicting it. He pushes me around like I am nothing, only an animal to be herded and mistreated.

I want to struggle. Barney would want me to struggle. But I am so terrified of what this man could do to me, I cannot command my limbs to fight. I am shaking in my skin like leaf in a hurricane, and every single rebellious inclination I have flees my mind. The strength in my limbs ebbs like a retracting wave.

With another flick of the switchblade, he cuts my wrists apart. Before I have time to even think about struggling, he presses the blade to my neck and mutters with hot breath and hate in my ear, "Don't you dare move."

I clench my jaw shut around a whimper and do as bade. I am still blind, but I hear him rattling a chain behind me. Suddenly I am spun around by rough hands, and there are cold handcuffs on my wrists, cinched tightly. The chain I heard is joined to them with the clink of a carabiner.

There is another jerk, and I am reeled forwards, eventually winding up almost hanging from the ceiling, with just my toes brushing the floor. All my weight is on my wrists, and the cuffs bite painfully. Before I can think to lash out with my desperate feet, he captures them both, and I hear another carabiner clink as he secures them to the floor.

I am trapped. There's no way for me to get down from here. I am at his mercy. The cuffs are digging into my skin in _exactly_ the same place as the sharp, thin twine from the hut in Nepal, and subconsciously, it is driving me crazy. Defeated and on edge, I listen to him step back. "Trussed up nicely," he murmurs approvingly. His voice sends a tattoo of goosebumps over my skin.

I gasp when I feel cold metal against the side of my neck again, more insistently. I freeze, praying he is not going to stab me...

A third flick of the switchblade, and the drawstring of the bag over my head is cut. I am wound so tightly I can feel my blood in my ears. He pulls the bag off my head, and I am plunged into vision.

The room is white-walled, wood-floored, windowless and utterly blank save for a bare mattress on a sturdy wood frame. The adequate light is from several bright lanterns in the corners. Before me is the same man who attacked me at the hangar, wearing the same black clothes and military air. The man's dead eyes watch me without any emotion. "Do you know why you're here?" he asks. With a reptilian grace, he steps back once and sinks to sit cross-legged on the floor, staring at me over his blade.

I think him sitting down is more scary than him standing in front of me. He is implying that he is just as dangerous, if not more so, than if he were standing. I shake my head in response to his question. What kind of game is this? I feel immediately that it is one I will lose at, with painful consequences.

"Barney may have mentioned me after our phone call," he continues, turning the flashing switchblade over and over. "I'm Church."

My face goes pale, and Church smiles.

"So he did mention me. Told you to watch out, didn't he?" His tone is softly mocking. It is not a rhetorical question.

I nod, my gaze fixed on the knife in his hands.

"Taught you almost everything he knows, I bet." A sardonic smile tilts his features dangerously.

I nod again, my cheeks flushing. The words sink into my heart like an arrow, and I feel shamed somehow, like I've let Barney down. I realize I have. I did not fight. I learned everything Barney taught me: guns and punches and kicks. None of it mattered when faced with this man. All my efforts were wasted, because I am weak. My eyes blur with tears. "What do you want?" I whisper, watching him with wide eyes.

Church chuckles lowly, and it frightens me like a lion's growl frightens a lame gazelle. "From you, I don't expect much." He says it factually, but it feels like an bullet in the chest. I am barely worth his time. I am close to useless to him. "Right now, half a world away, Barney is doing his deeds to win your freedom," he assures, still making it feel like a threat. "He's still got twelve hours before I kill you."

This time, it feels like my whole body pales in one huge icy wave. Twelve hours? What has he asked Barney to do? Can Barney do it in time?

"Answer a few questions while we wait for Barney's call," says Church as reasonably as sin-covered Satan. His snake-like gaze captures mine, and my soul quails. He smiles again, unnervingly, and answers my unvoiced question. "I've been watching Barney for quite some time, since Albania. When you pop up out of the blue, you can imagine my curiousity."

Church stands, and reaches out to stroke my cheek with a hand. It sends another shiver over my body, and a hot flush of disgust through me. Our eyes lock, and I debate biting his hand. I decide it is not worth the pain he will inflict as recompense. So I turn my head away from the fingers on my cheek, closing my eyes so I don't have to see the disturbia in his eyes.

He saw the debate in my face, and my decision not to bite him, almost as though it were displayed on a screen on my forehead. "Good girl," he murmurs, dropping the hand. "Keep up this acquiescence, and we'll get along smoothly.

I loathe that he is in such control of the situation, and the emotion is strong, almost as strong as my previous shame.

The potency of my emotions must be the effects of the needle. The fear, shame, disgust, all of it. And it is only growing stronger, a veritable monsoon of feeling.

Church sidles back a step and sits cross-legged again. The knife continues to flash. "How's the cocktail? Jazzing you up yet?" he asks conversationally.

I snort, a glimmer of defiance rising in me, and do not answer.

He smiles the way a crypt full of skulls does. "Give it time," he urges. "We've got a while yet."

* * *

**Booker:**

Trench beats me to Barney's hangar, the bastard. He's leaned against the side of his Beemer in the shade of the overhang when I pull up.

"Took you long enough," he comments dryly. But that's all the tall Austrian says to goad me. He must still be feeling bad about getting Meera kidnapped. No doubt, a new emotion for the man. "What are we here for, exactly?"

"Barney's got an array of hidden cameras in the hangar," I reply, the leftover dirt on my boots from my hunting expedition gritting the concrete as I slam my SUV's door. I leave the laptop going on the passenger seat, the time bar ticking by tenths of a percent as it piggybacks the satellites. "Church might have left some clue as to his whereabouts on them."

I walk past Trench, leaving him to follow me into the huge, open concrete structure. The front of it is bereft of the flying deathtrap that is Santa, and the back third is walled off strongly and must be Barney's home.

"Here," I say simply, feeling around on the facade of the cargo boxes against the wall. Trench explores the rough wood with me, and in moments, we find identical bars that hold the back of one container up. Sliding them out, the container's rear wall drops to the ground, revealing a trio of screens, an array of wires, and a small antenna that wirelessly connects the unseen cameras to the several-terabyte memory bank which holds the recorded imagery.

"Barney has too much time on his hands," mutters Trench. He reaches into the box and withdraws a cheap laptop. "This must be the controls. May I?"

"Be my guest."

Trench sets to work rewinding the footage on all three screens, which takes much longer than I thought. I glance at my watch: we're down another two hours, and have only ten to go. A lot can happen in ten hours; I intend to make it good.

"This is going to take a while," admits Trench, eyes sharply watching the screens.

I grunt and wander to the door of Barney's home, wondering if we're lucky today. "Hey," I get Trench's attention when the cracked door swings open. "Unlocked. Think Church left any evidence?"

Trench frowns in thought. "It's a long shot. CIA like Church aren't prone to mistakes."

I agree. Longer than a long shot, but worth a try for Meera's sake. I take a step through the door.

Only my hair-trigger reflexes keep me from tripping the wire strung across the jamb near the ground. I freeze like a statue in a nanosecond, the wire pinned under my right boot.

Trench notices my freeze, and the wire. After a second, he asks me casually, "You got it?"

I nod. "Yeah. Just a tension-release booby trap." So what, I'm standing on a line attached to a pound of C4. Big deal. Both of us are mercs: no sense getting upset over a little danger. What would be upsetting is if I had completed that step. Calming my stuttering heart is easy. Pulling a multitool from my belt, I slowly kneel, following the wire to the explosives rigged and taped to the wall at knee level. If I step off the wire, the circut completes, and I go into orbit. I locate the wire that connects the C4 to the circut and clip it confidently.

There is always that moment of cringe, when you debate your life choices up to this moment in a flash, and at the end of it, you're either dead or alive to fight another day. Opening my eyes, I see that my prize is the latter.

"Nice," congratulates Trench as I clip the wire at my boot.

I walk into Barney's living space, gun at the ready despite sensing its emptiness. It smells faintly of sweat, coffee, and Thai spices. There is an underlying tone of feminine sweetness, like shampoo and smiles. It warms my heart a little, even though my face stays passive. The place may be a mess, but I know from experience that it could be much, much messier. The place feels less like a military barracks and more like a home, a place to nest. When Hu-Nee became my wife, I noticed the same change in my house, too.

To my left is a line of showers facing a few sinks and a full-wall mirror. In front of me is the largest section of the living quarters, divided into kitchen area, TV area, sleeping area, and the rest devoted to exercise equipment and various projects that occupy a mercenary in his spare time. To my right is a dark hall with one room, and instinct leads me there, Uzi leading the way.

Patting the wall of the stuffy, echoless room, I locate the lightswitch, but think better of flipping it. My harrowing experience at the door has tautened my nerves and made me suspicious. I reach to my belt and pull out a strong flashlight, shining it all around the clothes closet. Sure enough, there's another pound of C4 rigged to the lightbulb above my head, and I exhale wordless praise to my guardian angel as I clip the defuse.

The lightbulb is useless, so I set about eyeing every aspect of the closet closely, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There are a few speckles of blood on the floor, like the drips of a bopped nose, and a woman's leather jacket dropped haphazardly when everything else is hung neatly. That tells me Meera met Church here, with sucky consequences.

Even though I have no clue as to what Meera looks like, my brain supplies a middle-aged and malnourished woman with deep brown skin and black hair. I've been to Nepal a few times in my career, after all. I know well enough what Church looks like. I try to envision the interaction that must have happened as I cautiously pick up the dropped jacket. _Meera came in here to hang this up, _I think. _And Church was waiting for her, having somehow gotten past the front door. _

To subdue a woman, even a woman that lived with Barney Ross and undoubtedly picked up his tricks, would not be difficult for a man of Church's experience. After glancing around, I locate the only place big enough to hide a grown man completely in the walk-in closet: the space behind a deep rack of hanging uniforms. I sweep them aside with the tip of my Uzi, shining the flashlight all around.

At first glance there's nothing, but then, I was expecting as much. Only my stubborness and a nagging feeling in my gut make me give the tiny space a second look. There! A very faint shadow on the wall: a white piece of paper only a shade off from the color of the paint. I pick it off the wall excitedly. A receipt. It was stuck there by static cling. Looking at the uniforms, I notice they're all synthetic fabrics, bad for building up a shock. Experimentally, I rub my sleeve against the nearest outfit and touch my gun tip, and the tiny shock confirms my thoughts.

Church slid through these clothes and waited for Meera here. The static cling was just strong enough to make the receipt that must've been hanging out of his pocket stick to the wall.

_Damn, _I think wonderingly. _I should play the lottery today. _

"Still alive in here?" calls Trench from the front door.

"Would it break your heart if I wasn't?" I ask wryly, walking back down the hall with the jacket in tow.

The tall Austrian grins snidely. "Hardly. Find anything?"

I hold up the receipt. "It's to the camping and cabin place in the state park, not a hundred miles from here. Dated in the last month."

Trench snatches the piece of paper from my hand. "It could be Barney's. He camps in the off job times."

I incline my head in agreement. "It might be. Have you found anything on the cameras?"

Trench nods. "A boatload, but I doubt it will be very useful." We walk back into the hangar and Trench stabs a finger at the screens, toggling through several timestops he dogeared for reference. "About two days ago, a hot little dyke comes and visits Meera. They leave. Church walks in, pretty as you please, and plants a camera." Trench holds up a bolt-shaped spy camera. "He must have been watching her for a while, and was ready for the opportunity. The dynamic duo come back, and the woman leaves the next morning. I would have killed to be a fly on the wall for _that_ little sleepover."

I nod absently, studying the feed. The grainy image of Meera is petite, smaller even than my Asian wife, especially when compared to the 'hot little dyke' Trench refers to.

"The next day, Meera leaves in the truck. Church comes in for the ambush, keying in the door code he obviously was pandering for with his camera, and a few hours later, Meera comes back."

The little Nepali woman has a pronounced spring in her step, unknowingly walking right into a trap as she keys the door code. The next timestop shows Church walking out like a hunter carrying his kill, the unconscious and tied Meera slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"That's the same basic storyline I came up with," I concur. "But it gives us shit to help find them."

Trench sighs, closing the laptop and shutting the cargo box. "So we're back to square one."

In the silence that follows, we both try to figure a way around this massive roadblock. I've got nothing, and Trench's frown suggests the same. This is seriously denting Meera's chances of survival. My ears perk up when I hear the sound of my laptop beep loudly. "Maybe not," I muse, walking over to my SUV and pulling the laptop off the seat. Balancing it on the hood, with Trench looking over my shoulder hulkingly, I scan the data the satellite triangulation came up with.

Three satellites were in the area when Church called Barney with his bad news. They form a trifecta with a hundred-square-mile overlap on a topographical map.

"Hand me that receipt," I tell Trench. Getting my drift, he does so.

In a few minutes, I've narrowed the satellites' overlap down to the area of the state park cabin sites. We're down to twenty-five square miles.

"Now the spy cam," I urge.

Trench is getting excited. "I'm picking up what you're laying down," he says. "Need a USB cord?"

"Yeah."

He retrieves one from his car, inserts the spy camera's port into one end, and I plug it into my laptop. Tracing the signal from the spy camera's feed to the screen it played on, I find it is a CIA-grade computer.

"That type of computer is used in CIA suveillance vans," says Trench.

"Yep," I say, my victory nearing completion. "And guess where that van is now?"

"Parked next to a cabin in the state park?"

I hit the 'enter' key with finality, and a yellow crosshairs zooms across the screen, settling over a grainy satellite image of a square cabin's roof, deep in the woods.

"Bingo, you son of a bitch," murmurs Trench.

"We got the bastard," I say, tapping the coordinates into a GPS. "Now let's go get 'im."

* * *

**Yang:**

It turns out my previous prediction underestimates my awesomeness. I get the door open using wires pilfered from the television. After glancing down the hall both ways, I pick Shawn's lock.

The man is waiting when I swing open the door. He is tall and well-muscled with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. "G'day," he greets quietly, extending a hand.

I shake the hand firmly, grinning at him. "I would offer to play you that hand of cards, but I would rather get moving."

"Aye," agreed the Aussie. "You wouldn't happen to know where our packs are, mate?"

I shake my head, deflating slightly. "We will not get far without gear."

We set off silently down the empty hall, passing several open doors to rooms exactly like ours. This wing of the mansion is incredibly quiet. It occurs to me that Mr. Kresh is keeping us seperated from the rest of the house for a reason: he does not want everyone to know we are here, and unwilling hostages.

At the junction of two wings, Shawn and I pause to get our bearings and listen for people. Sounds of life are coming from the distance, but the huge house sounds and feels relatively devoid of people in relation to its size. Good thing for us.

A vaccuum cleaner powers up not forty feet away, around the corner, making both of us jump. Shawn motions to a cracked door nearby, from which the light of a computer screen emnates, and we dash to the cover just before the maid turns the corner we'd been hiding behind.

I slowly close the door, and we're momentarily safe from discovery. I turn around, and take in the housekeeping station. There are racks of cleaning implements, carts of mops and brooms, and recharging vaccuums. On a old desk there is a stand of walkie-talkies on chargers, next to an ancient computer screen hooked up to a fairly new modem.

Shawn points to the computer. "Think you can contact your boss?"

"Why?" I query, not following.

Shawn blinks. "Mine's in the States. Your boss is the only option I've got for getting out of Russia. If I haven't got a ride out of this armpit of a country, I've no need to leave with you. Kresh is set to release me when Trench pays Barney, anyway." He shrugs, averting his eyes. "It's not personal, mate.'

"I see," I reply, not unkindly. If Shawn has no need to face the howling cold, why should he? I walk over and power up the computer. "You keep watch. I will Skype his sat phone."

The computer's base language is set to Russian, and my reading of the same a little rusty. Still, I recognize the Skype icon and click it. While it dials up the number I have memorized, I find the microphone and plug it in. I guess the housekeeping use the array to coordinate cleaning shifts and such of the huge house. After a few seconds of struggling, the screen displays a connection.

_"Who is this?"_ snaps Barney on the other end. The connection is solid and clear, and the green line on the screen bounces with his voice.

Frantically, I turn the volume down as I answer. "It's me, Yang!"

The shock in Barney's pause is palpable._ "Yang? What the hell - ? How?"_

"We are on a little field trip," I reply, glancing over at Shawn, who grins and gives thumbs-up from the door. The vaccuum drones on, covering our conversation.

_"We?"_ queries Barney.

"Me and Shawn Sullivan. He's the man Kresh is holding to make sure Trench pays you."

_"So this really is Kresh's favorite play,"_ snorts Barney. _"It's good to hear from you, Yang. We could really use you here."_

"Nadia giving you trouble?" I tease.

_"She's the least of my problems,"_ he replies hollowly._ "Meera's been kidnapped by Church."_

My mouth falls open. I feel Shawn stiffen from across the room, picking up on the tone Barney uses and coming to the right conclusions. "Fuck," he mutters.

"And you cannot leave to go help her because of me," I conclude with growing anger. "Damn that Kresh!"

_"I couldn't make it back in time, anyway,"_ says Barney, sounding drained and defeated. _"I've got Booker and Trench on it. It's out of my hands."_

"The Lone Wolf and Trench," I mutter, stressing but grudgingly agreeable to the choice. I cradle my head for a moment, processing. Poor Meera, alone and helpless against Church's tender mercies. "Meera is Barney's woman," I explain to Shawn, who is watching me with mild confusion.

Shawn sucks in a breath. Everyone knows that harming a merc's lover means calling down hellfire and war.

"How long has she got left?" I ask with restrained fury.

_"Eight hours and change,"_ replies Barney. I have never heard the man sound so tired or so scared. For a moment, we commiserate over the many miles, our worry and anger and more-than-slight despair swirling between us like the invisible connection.

"Church is the one behind my team's failure," says Shawn, breaking the silence. He walks over to the screen. "Ross, is it? This is Sullivan. Church's goons are who dogged my team's steps while we were here. They mean business."

_"I know,"_ says Barney, coming out of his stupor. I can hear a little of the Schizo in his voice. _"They're all dead."_

Shawn ducks his head with an appreciative huff. "Good. That's a huge load off. I assume Church made you the same offer he did us?"

_"To kill the Kreshes? Yeah. And if they fucked with you guys, too, then I guess you gave Church the same answer I did."_

"Amen, mate. Mercs aren't only money whores." Shawn winks at me.

_"Sullivan, if you and Yang can make it to the village of Crios and head thirty miles south-south-east, you'll find me and my team. When the mission is complete, we'll give you a lift back to the States."_ He leaves it unspoken that whatever happens to Meera will not affect the mission, which is just as painful to think about as it would be to experience. I can only hope Booker and Trench perform like the pros they are.

Shawn smiles gratefully. "Sure thing, mate. That ain't but a two-day hike from here."

"Once Shawn and I are out of Kresh's hands," I warn. "Who knows what that old Soviet will do."

I hear Barney's snarl. _"Let him try something. I've got his daughter, remember?"_

"It can only help," reasons Shawn. "If you're no longer a hostage, Ross is free to leave, if he wants, and go see his girl when she's rescued."

I can practically hear the stab of hope in Barney's chest. _"And if you're rescued by me and my team," _Barney continues the train of thought. _"Trench is gonna have to repay the favor. He'll pay us anyway."_

"I'll see to it," promises Shawn firmly. "You have my word."

We both hear the footsteps too late. I have just enough time to sever the connection and whirl around to look guilty. The cow of a woman who brings our food opens the door to see us both standing there. She freezes, looking a little afraid. Time stands still.

I'm just about to leap forward and chop her trachea before she sounds the alarm when Shawn makes a placating motion with his hands, stepping forward. He speaks in soothing Russian to the woman, asking her not to yell.

She eyes him warily, but her suspicion is ebbing as he continues to speak. His tone turns cajoling, tender. I recall all the times he sweet talked the woman over the course of my captivity, everytime he saw her. Presumably, he's been wisely preparing for this very moment. Shawn explains to her that we both must leave, because the lives of our friends are in danger. As he gets closer, he takes her hands in his own, and I can practically watch the woman swoon.

With one final, gently loving implore, Shawn brushes his lips against hers. I look away, embarrassed but impressed.

In under ten minutes, the woman has tracked down our gear, led us unseen to an out-of-the-way entrance not covered by security or cameras, and promised to keep 'delivering' our food to our empty rooms. After wheedling a promise of a return from Shawn, she watches us disappear into the falling night.

"You are a sly dog," I commend Shawn, my breath frosting.

The Aussie only chuckles, his snowshoes crunching the icey top layer of snow as we trudge quickly into the harsh wilderness of Russia's mountains.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note: Yeah, I know, a shortie. But it seems appropriate in light of Christmas. Everyone, have safe travels and happy celebrations. Remember, Jesus is the reason for the season!**

* * *

**Church:**

I like Meera, in a sadistic and admittedly, delightfully twisted sort of way. In my presence, she bows up like a kitten confronted by a large dog: so utterly harmless it's adorable.

The drugs I gave her are starting to peak. I can tell by the way her eyes glaze over every half minute or so, and her mouth hangs slack after a particularly slow, shallow drag of my knife. The psychological effects of the cocktail are amplifying every mote of pain, every bolt of electricity, every nuance of my tones.

I'm in her, around her, echoing through her mind and body. She can't escape me, or the pain I inflict.

Over the course of the last three hours, I've asked myriad questions, some innane and some a burning curiousity. By baiting her to answer seemingly harmless questions, her walls will start to come down. It's a natural pregression, really, to draw first sounds, then words, then meaningful mixes of both. When she repeatedly refuses to answer, I make her twist and scream with pain on the ends of her cuffs.

Yes, I like her screams best. At first she refused me those sounds of release, but I soon wrung them out of her. A tazer does that quickly.

It sates my savage beast to have her, a substitute for and direct tie to Barney, so totally under my control. I stroke my knife point down her neck again, to watch her tense and her expression change in pain. The blade leaves a pink streak, not quite breaking the tender skin.

"How did you and Barney meet?" I ask Meera softly, so she has to listen. A serious question, after a few softening ones, as has been my pattern.

Her eyes open, sharpen against the drugs, and flash brandy fire. "Go to hell!" she snarls. Being around Americans has obviously improved her vernacular.

She accepts my retaliation without chagrin, like the advances of a lover, understanding the consequences before she had even voiced the words. It makes me smile, even as she grinds her teeth against the tazer's stabs. She knows pain: bone-deep, heartbreaking pain. She knows it well enough to weigh the value of her answers against it, and find the answers worth keeping behind that locked jaw.

I watch the blood drip down her elbow, fascinated by the viscousity and brightness of it, waiting several long seconds before removing the prongs of the tazer from her stomach. The tazer's tip smells like burned blood and ozone, and matches the deep red-to-black scorch marks on her skin, under the burned points on her shirt.

She sags, and I give her a moment to recover. Who said I wasn't polite? "We've still got five hours," I comment pleasantly, looking at my watch.

She wheezes with each breath, not bothering to take her weight off the cuffs. That simply won't do.

I cradle the back of her head, angling myself up under her downturned face. "Where did you and Barney meet?"

"None of your business," she says, breath fanning my face. The intimacy of the moment is stunning, a traditional, regressive romance between an aggressor and a receiver.

I step back slightly, put my blade at her prominent little hipbone, and slice. She shrieks as fresh blood pours, soaking her jeans down to one knee in moments.

She's probably starting to feel the loss of blood and the full sway of the drugs by now: a weakness and a buzz, all in one. It might even be crossing her mind that she could die, in five hours, from bloodloss, if not outright from my ministrations.

"You will answer me truthfully, Meera," I state. It's only a matter of time. As Leo Tolstoy once said, the two most powerful warriors are patience and time. I have abundance of one, but limits to the other. The change of tone in her answers is heartening.

We'll get there. We're well on the way.

* * *

**Booker:**

Trench and I leave his Beemer in Barney's hangar, taking my SUV and hitting the interstate once again.

I'm focused on the task at hand and the one ahead. The cabin on the map is the most secluded one in the park, perfect for holing up with a prisoner.

Trench reaches over and stabs the radio on. Classical notes fill the car. "Are you kidding me?" he asks. "Where's the jazz station?"

I stab the radio back off, glaring at him. Barney learned his Look from the best, after all.

"Since Church doesn't know we're coming," says Trench, with a clearing of his throat. "I assume the obvious plan is the one we're going with?"

"The obvious," I affirm. "With a twist."

"A sharp eye for boobytraps?"

"You got it."

Trench grunts. "Should be easy, provided the element of surprise stays with us. We'll be home by dinner."

"Lean Cusine again tonight?" I quip dryly.

"You know me so well," he deadpans. "Lean Cusine and Jack Daniels No. 7. Dinner of champions. And more fried cat and rice for you?"

"Hu-nee and I've grown to appreciate venison, lately," I remark thoughtfully, recalling the buck I'd been stalking earlier. It figures I would trade one hunt for another. I only hope that the sum of my skills, experience, and luck outweighs Church's, who is significantly more wiley than a deer.

"Good stuff," appoves Trench, suddenly remembering his arrogant facade. He paws through his personal dufflebag, withdrawing a Kel-Tech Sub 2000, snapping out the stock and sighting it.

I want to roll my eyes. Never did like Trench's penchant for showiness. But he is a level head and a good shot, and Barney was smart to send two for this rescue mission.

"We'll park someplace secluded," I say, taking the exit ramp. "And hike in. Avoid the roads and rangers."

"Agreed," replies Trench, mechanically screwing on a silencer. "No sense making ourselves seen. Is a tactical strobe light too much bling?"

I eye the setting sun, painting the horizon in gradiating hues. "I'd say it's too much, normally, but in a situation like this, go for it."

Trench snaps the device under his barrel, and tests it against his shoes. "Hell yeah."

I smile faintly, because the sentiment is mutual. Hell is about to come down on Church.

* * *

**Barney:**

I have four hours. Four fucking hours until I lose the love of my life, the only person in all my years to steal my heart.

I feel old. Down to my very bones, ancient. I sit down for a while, facing the sun with my back to a granite boulder.

You walk towards me across a clearing of shimmering snow, naked and lovely. Your skin has lost some of its glow, and your smile does not reach your eyes. "Barney," you whisper. It sounds like a plea, a summoning, an incantation.

"I'm here," I murmur.

Your head ducks towards your bare chest, and when you lift it again, your nose is bleeding and your eye is black. "Barney," you say again, louder, more insistent, as though you weren't sure I heard you.

"I'm here," I repeat, with an equal change in volume.

There's a _pat, pat, pat _sound. I look down. Bright red blood falls to the snow, from between your legs. You moan in pain, clutching your own shoulders, as though your body could hug itself and that makes it better, because I'm not there to embrace you.

_"BARNEY!"_ you yell, at the top of your lungs.

I bolt upright against the rock in Russia. My heart is pounding, faster than it did when we kissed. I fell asleep, when a hemisphere away, you're being tortured. That _pat, pat, pat _sound is real.

I dig my fingers into my scalp until is hurts. I want to scream with frustration. If I were there, I'd save you, I'd hold you, and stop your bleeding.

I'd stop your bleeding.

I hear a very faint whirring sound above me. Snapping my head up, I blink away the blurriness of sleep and sorrow. The UAV is emerging from the clouds, dipping in and out of the scuds about a mile away in the white-brushed-blue sky. Its trajectory is away from the camp, over the vista we are camped in sweeping view of.

"Where's that laser?!" I bark, scrambling to my feet and running back to the camp.

The guys are all hustling, too. "Do we shoot?" asks Christmas tersely.

"Negative! Kresh can't know we see it, or he'll guess something's up with Nadia," I reply.

"And then go check on Yang and Sullivan," finishes Nadia grimly. She holds out the laser pointer to Gunnar. "You are sniper, yes? You have best chance at blinding the UAV."

"She's right," I agree.

Gunnar takes the laser from her with an affirmative nod. "Lend me a shoulder, Ceasar," he says, and the black man sidles in front of him. Gunnar balances his outstretched arm on his friend's shoulder.

"Windspeed, four, south-south-east," says Toll from Ceasar's other side, his eye to a monocular. "Distance, three-thousand yards."

Gunnar inhales, exhales. "Firing." The red laser beams forth, but seemingly makes no contact with the UAV. Gunnar grunts negatively, and motions to Toll. "Gimme that scope. I can't see where I'm aiming."

"You were on the tail fin, over the letters," Toll supplies.

"The lens of the camera is on the front undercarriage of the drone," says Nadia, sharply eyeing the flying symbol of her father's imposing will.

"It'll come back around for another run, I know," I say, folding my arms and widening my stance in the snow.

We all watch with craned heads as the drone get smaller, further away, and eventually disappears into a cloud bank.

"Or maybe not," comments Ceasar. "Damn."

I sigh, rubbing my eyes. This day is hell.

"How much time left?" Christmas asks.

"Yes," whispers Nadia, as though agreeing with the asking of the question.

"Three hours," I reply mechanically. I continue to watch where the UAV vanished, because I don't want to fall asleep. If I hear the sound of your dripping blood anymore, I'll throw myself off a cliff.

Although, at the end of three hours, I might have to do that anyway.


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Note: Hell yeah, buddy! Here's the action I promised. Happy belated Christmas!**

* * *

**Trench:**

This sort of approach takes me back to a time when we were all grunts trying not to get our heads blown off, out in the sticks of Cambodia. Replace the jungles with pine and shedding hardwood, and the feeling is the same.

It feels like, even though Church has no way of knowing we're in his backyard, literally, that he's somehow expecting us. But that is attributing omniscience to a human, and I am loathe to make the mistake.

Barney must love Meera in a big way to risk pairing Booker and I together for this impromptu rescue. We never got along in the old unit, back when we old enough to swing a gun but not old enough to drink. Uncle Sam made us unit buddies, but not friends. If it weren't for our mutual respect for Barney, I doubt we'd be doing this. From what the hangar cameras show, she seems pretty enough. But I know nothing more about her than her relation to Barney, and even that is sketchy.

Still, any woman who penetrates a merc like Barney's heart has got to be special. I'm curious to meet her. Well, provided she's still alive when we find her.

Booker crouches in front of me, throwing up a closed fist to signal a stop. I crouch at his left shoulder, and peer at the screen of the GPS he pulls from his chest pocket.

"A hundred more yards," he whispers, sounding much like the breeze that quakes the leaves around us.

I tighten my grip on my gun, staring off into the bush, but find a quip. "There's an Uhara joke in there somewhere, Booker."

He stares at me blankly.

"Uhara? Star Trek broad who repeats the computer?"

I can tell he's debating if he can kill me quietly enough to not blow the mission. The answer to that is yes, but he still needs me to take up his slack.

We rise to a half-crouch, guns at half-mast, and set off silently. It pisses me off that he's quieter in his steps than me.

When I put my foot through a punji trap, only grabbing onto him keeps me from losing my balance and impaling myself. We both stare down at the boot-sized hole, and the sharpened sticks at the bottom, and then at my fistful of his shirt. There is no cry of alarm because we are pros with our balls out.

"Yeah," I say, trying to hide my embarrassment.

It gives me some satisfaction to see him do the same thing not four steps later, and because he's not in a position to grab me, I catch him under the arm and perform a rather fast judo hip toss, throwing him out of harm's way.

The smaller man is whipped through the air, lands on his back, and tries to process. Then he realizes that I'm drawing breath for a joke at his expense, and flips to his feet. "Thanks," he says, in a way that implies his pride suffers less if he acknowledges my aid.

"How much - ?"

Booker points over my shoulder, and peeking between the scruffy fall bush is a rustic cabin with an air of promise.

Both of us sink to the forest floor, and start to crawl for the last leg of our approach. We're out of the punji field, but hardly out of the woods, so to speak. The cabin is nestled snugly amongst the trees, with no yard or rear attachments like a porch. There is one window, but it is boarded up.

I reach up and run a hand over the boards and nailheads. "Freshly done." We're still whispering.

Booker nods, wheels spinning, and makes the tactical signs for, "Look around the corners for more windows or doors. You go left, I'll go right."

Still on my stomach with my gun in front of me, I wriggle to the side of the cabin and poke my head around the corner. Another window, also newly boarded, and a thick bundle of wires protruding from a corner of it. I worm closer, watching for someone to come around from the front of the house. The bundle of wires is warm to the touch, and if I had to guess from the grade...

Flipping over onto my back, I look at the roof and, sure enough, there's a satellite bolted to the eaves. And it does not say 'Dish Network' on the bowl.

"Found his communications array," I murmur upon returning to Booker.

"Must be how he bounced his signal when he talked to Barney." His eyes get a sharp glint to them, and I recognize the spark of a plan. Or insanity.

"That's the look that cost us an Abrams tank in Uganda," I say worriedly.

"Let's go T-mobile on him," says Booker.

The spark catches in my own eyes when I catch his drift, and I grin. Oh, this'll be fun.

* * *

**Barney:**

The tent, though sadly perforated due to the CIA's assualt, is hastily patched with ducttape and we pile in as the snow piles higher. I go along numbly, my mind thousands of miles away. The tent is cold and mostly dark, because we are conserving fuel. Nadia has lowered her nose enough to accept the arm Gunnar threw around her.

Outside, the wind howls through the craigs and over the cliffs, driving snow before it in a blizzard. God as my witness, I'll never come back to Russia again. I zone out tiredly. I have no more emotions in my current vein of depseration and worry to throw at this problem. Who would have known that being unable to fix something myself would mess with me so badly?

You are hardly a 'fix', though. That word implies you are broken, and you need new parts. You are a heal, or a restoration, because you require only enough love and care to put you back together.

If Booker and Trench get you out of this, I wonder how much 'fixing' you'll need.

I sigh from the deepest part of my body and shiver. I'm more tired than I ever have been in my life, including basic training, and my energy reserves are almost gone, multiplying the cold. It seem that in my wish for your survival, I am neglecting my own.

"If you don't believe she'll be fine, you'll jinx it," says Ceasar. I feel him crawl over, and something nudges my arm. I take it, and the wrapper around an energy bar crinkles.

I have to smile, because Ceasar always packs the good shit that has real chocolate. Ripping the wrapper off and sinking my teeth in, my stomach roars to life. Something warm and heavy is put around me, and I recognize the smell and texture of my unzipped sleeping bag. I draw the things closer around me, and gnaw away ravenously at the bar.

"You have to decide," continues Ceasar. "In your own mind, if she's dead or alive."

"Is that blisdom?" I ask, the joke evident.

"Black-wisdom, no. The product of too much Dr. Phil books, yes." I hear the smile in his voice.

He crawls back to his own sleeping bag, and I swig from my canteen. Orange Gatorade never tasted so good.

I see what he means, though. For my own sake, I need to either start writing you off, or planning for your recovery. Indecision and the unknown can ruin a man if unchecked. I refuse to let it ruin me, because you're going to need me. I only hope you're not so deconstructed as when we first met.

The dream-you with bloody thighs looms in my mind's eye, and my hand unconsciously tightens on the canteen, denting it. If Church has raped you, he's not just a dead man. He's a _slow_ dead man, missing every extremity until he's nothing but a shrieking, cauterized torso. Then he may die. I should call Booker and amend the plan.

"I'ma go bleed the lizard," announces Christmas. We all groan as he opens the tent flap, momentarily silhouetted against the streaking snowfall, and quickly zips it up behind him. The draft sucks any warmth out of the tent.

"You'd think he's just use a bottle," gripes Toll.

"He's got the bladder of a seventy-year old man," Gunnar replies. "He'll freeze his dick off before he succeeds."

We all chuckle, even Nadia. I smile, and am surprised by a pang of guilt. I decide to air the emotion. "Guys," I begin. "I'm sorry for abandoning you. It may not have been literal, but it was mental."

"Barney," scoffs Toll. "Meera's _our _friend, too."

"We get it, man," agrees Gunnar.

The crunching of snow is heard outside. "Fellas!" hollers Christmas. "Guess who just showed up!"

The tent door unzips again, and three figures stumble inside in a flurry of snow and freezing wind.

"Yang!" Gunnar cries, rising to embrace his friend. "Fuck, you're cold!"

"And you are warm!"

"Ugh, don't hug me! Bad touch!" Someone lights a lantern, and it reveals our token Asian and his scruffy blonde tag-along. Said Asian is laughing at Gunnar's attempts to pry him off. "Good to see you, guys!" he says happily.

I rise to my feet and extend a hand. "Sullivan, right?"

"Yes," he replies, shaking my hand.

"Thank you for the assist."

"No worries, mate."

"Settle in, boys," says Christmas with enjoyment. "The band's back together!"

* * *

**Meera:**

Church takes a momentary break in his ministrations, and I am left to watch the floor zoom closer, farther, and in/out of focus. I can tell the drugs he gave me are wearing out.

The sound of my own blood occassionally dripping to the soaked floor is worrisome, in a very distant way.

The crackle of Church's water bottle threatens the silence. When he asks me no questions, he is disconcertingly voiceless. That's when the drug (I think) makes me hear other things. The hum of electronics in the other room sounds like a swarm of bees, and the illusion makes it so, right down to the stings I feel. Somehow, the sound of a woman screaming in the next room reminds me of myself in Nepal as they spread my legs. But there is no woman screaming. I am not in Nepal.

Around and around my brain chases its tail. The drug throws up illusions, and I have to force my tired mind to pick them apart with logic, or accept they are real. It is getting more difficult, because even though the drugs are on the downward slope, my mental capacity is diminishing with bloodloss and exhuastion. This is where Church wants me: beaten down, fatigued in every way, at the end of my rope.

I can feel his eyes boring into my bowed head as he plans his next attack on my body and psyche. I am not sure how much more of this I can take. A part of me wants to give in, because his questions are not so obviously dangerous. He's asked about previous missions of Barney's, some of which I know of from stories, and about Gunnar, Yang, Chirstmas, Toll, Tool, and Ceasar, but what little I could answer I refuse to utter. I know that if Church wants the answers, it is harmful to my friends and my love. I refuse to give him ammunition, because God only knows what he has planned for it.

Church made a mistake in telling me that Barney can save me. Putting aside that Barney would have to take lives to do so, the prospect gives me something to hold on to in the storm of pain and fear. If I hold on to hope that my love will come through for me, I can withstand.

From somewhere in another room, a small, repeated beep sounds. I find the strength to raise my head when I hear Church's boots move. "Hang around for me, Meera," he says. "I think we'll use that bed, next." He opens the door to my prison and leaves me in momentary peace.

Oh God, he's going to rape me!

My wounds are throbbing all over, but little does he know, I have felt worse. I shake my head as the walls flex like lungs in time with my own breath, and try to free my brain from the illusions that the drugs are causing. The walls stop flexing, but still shake with my rapid, traitorously pumping heartbeat.

I have told him nothing, but it is only by a hair's breadth. Of course, he's going to switch tactics. One tear slides down my cold cheek. Do I have a smell or mark on my skin that makes me a target for such violence?

Barney has only about an hour left to fufill Church's terms. The possibility of actually dying here, in this stupid, whitewashed, dark room with no one friendly grips my heart, injecting fresh fear. Of course, I would rather die than go through _that_ again.

I am sick of it.

I clench my sore jaw and stare after Church's exit. It occurs to me that he is just another in a long line of men who seek to harm me. He is another villager kicking me away from the well, another Nepalese rebel pounding into me, another...

_I'm so fucking _sick_ of it._

I'm sick of being a helpless victim, prey for any shark who wants a bite. Barney, like now, will not always be there to protect me. That is why he taught me how to shoot, to use my fists.

I'm letting him down. Barney wants me to fight to love another day, the same way he does. So that when the dust settles and the blood dries, we can still be together.

I feel an unholy fire kindle in my gut. My feet may barely touch the ground thanks to the caribiner suspending me from the ceiling rafters, but my toes can touch the caribiner securing my feet to the bolt in the ground. Hanging my head again, this time not in purpose instead of exhuastion, I wait for Church to return.

* * *

**Booker:**

"You know what you're doing?" I ask Trench as he brings a multitool to bear on the bundle of wires.

"Hell, yeah, I do," replies the Austrian, peeling back the insulation. "Think it'll work?"

"It will. When he sees the fritz on his electronics, he'll come out to fix it."

The tall man stifles a yelp, sticking his finger into his mouth. "Bitch shocked me, but it's done."

We scurry back to our hidden position behinid the corner of the cabin, and wait, safeties off our guns and muscles taut with expectancy.

After two tense minutes, the front door creaks, swings, and a pair of heavy feet come down the steps. There is the clink of tools in a bag.

As one, Trench and I swing around the corner and open fire.

Somehow, Church already has out his gun, or he's an extremely quick draw. He pops off three shots, one of them whizzing by my ear, and backpedals rapidly, face furious and surprised.

I have to smile. We caught him off guard, just as planned.

Trench steps forward, matching Church's backpedal, and nearly pays for it. Church nails him in the gut, sends another shot zinging over my head, and turns the corner of the cabin, out of sight.

Trench groans and tears open his shirt, revealing the bullet embedded in his Kevlar vest. "Guess I'm the substitute for Barney the bullet magnet," he jokes.

"Can you stand?" I ask, my Uzi trained on where Church disappeared around the house.

He scoffs. "Bitch, please." He grunts to his feet, hefts his gun to his shoulder, and we follow Church hotly.

The front of the cabin is threatless, but that does nothing to make us relax. We carefully keep out of each other's line of fire, eyes roaming, minds singularly focused. The interior of the cabin is dark, and we probe the corners with adjusting eyes.

"Party time," I whisper. Trench flips on his tactical strobe and leads the way, the twitching light banishing the darkness.

The cabin in small, only four rooms that I can tell, and the first two we check are empty. Where is Church? He can't just vanish. I throw open the door on the room connected to the wires and satellite outside, and scan it in a second. Nobody there. He must be waiting for us in the last room, probably with a gun to Meera. It'll be a quick-shot scenario, but I'm positive I can get a headshot from ten feet away or less.

Trench takes the opposite side of the door to the last room, and with a nod, we step into our fate.

And pause, because neither of us was expecting what we found.

Meera is hanging from the ceiling, looking significantly more disheveled and bloody than the hangar cameras showed, a snarl on her face, and her legs wrapped tightly around a rapidly reddening Church's neck. The CIA operative's gun is against the wall, presumably kicked out of his hand.

I blink in surprise, but once I catch the young woman's eye, I slowly lower my Uzi, and Trench lowers his Kel-Tech.

"Meera, I presume?" I ask, watching Church's face turn puce.

"Yes," she grunts, tightening down again. Church twitches, his eyes bugging out. It is gratifying to see that he loses all his composure when his oxygen is cut off, same as any man.

"Do you..." Trench trails off momentarily, looking slightly stunned. "Want any help?"

"No, thank you," comes Meera's strained reply. The contrast of politeness and murderous intent is almost comical. She bounces slightly off her wheezing leghold, grabbing the chains of the cuffs around her wrists, and sighs as the pressure is taken off the bruises and cuts there. "And you are...?"

"Booker," I reply. I see no reason why I can't lean against the doorframe, as I am obviously not needed. The deescalation is sudden and stunning. "You may also know me through Barney as the Lone Wolf."

She smiles around her fiercely homicidal expression. "He's mentioned you a few times. And you, Trench. Nice to see you again."

Trench is disconcerted somewhat, having come to the party to find it started without him. He switches off the tactical strobe with some remorse. "Likewise," he replies. "Are you sure...?"

"Yep," Meera replies curtly, gritting her teeth and squeezing impossibly harder. Church's paltry claws at her legs falter, and his arms fall to his sides. The lithe Nepali holds him suspended for a few seconds longer, then, with a cry, twists to the side. Church's neck snaps audibly, and she lets him fall.

I'm impressed. Leave it to a woman to utilize such pure hatred so efficiently.

Panting, Meera lowers her feet again. "Can you help me down?"

The spell is broken: from gleeful revenge seeker to pained and slightly sheepish. I scoop under her bloody jeans with my shoulders, so that her weight is off the cuffs, and Trench stretches his tall frame up to pick the locks. He then helps her slide down my back, leaving a noticeable amount of wet blood.

As I turn around, she sways unsteadily, and I realize just how much of that blood is now on the floor, under Church's still corpse.

"Whoa, easy there," says Trench, steadying her.

I reach out and shoulder his Kel-Tech's sling. "You hike her out to the car. I'm going to torch the place."

"That's not - " Meera starts, but Trench lifts her light frame and walks out of the room with long strides. " - necessary."

First, I yank the harddrives of all the computers in the satellite room. I imagine it will come in handy at some point. Then I rip open the mattress in the other room with my knife, strike a road flare, and drop it on the stuffing. With a final, mocking salute to Church's dead body, I turn on my heel and go. The room is full of black smoke before I clear the hall. I find it ironic that I am reluctant to burn the place down, yet have no qualms with taking a person's life. Priorities can be fucked up.

At the door, I pause and toss a small package back inside: the C4 from the wall of Barney's hangar. By the time the fire has spread, I will be long gone and the package will take care of any and all evidence.

Whistling, I stride away, into the woods. A hundred yards in, a wave of heat and sound pushes demurely at my back. I keep right on trucking.


	34. Chapter 34

**Meera:**

Trench has to duck under the doorframe slightly to manage his height and me in his arms, and for the first time, I see my prison from the outside. A decrepit cabin? It felt...bigger, somehow, or more imposing from within. The trees and scrub hug it tightly.

"Where are we?" I ask suddenly, feeling masochistic as he shoulders through some of the heavier brush.

"The state park, about 200 miles from the hangar," he replies tersely, but he spares no glance down at me. Past the initial hedge, Trench's long legs eat up the ground of the sparser woodlands. My feet swing loosely with the strides, the blood on my pants drying and sticky. He pauses only once to stare at two foot-sized holes in the ground, and carefully gives them a wide berth.

This arrangement does not make me happy. I just went through a solid half-day of torture and fighting for my life, then killed a man with my bare hands - erm, legs. I just want to lay down in a dark place and sleep, away from people, sounds, and my own roiling emotions. Trench's chest is aggravating the fresh blade strokes trailing shallow and stinging down my arm, his firm cradle panging the fist bruises on my back. The fold of my body reopens the cut on my hipbone, making me hiss. The shrieking pains reverberate, distracting me from my emotions. In the religion of pain, it is a blessing to have one pain confuse another. I shift slightly, but his strong hold corrects the imbalance for the benefit of his quick walk.

"I can walk, you know," I feel the urge to repeat, my tired brain trying to get my point across. His proximity, though platonic, makes me uncomfortable. My psyche and wounds are still screaming from Church. Really, I do not want anyone to touch me. I have had enough _contact _for a long time.

No. I must not think about that, not yet, my overwhelmed and reeling _self_ cannot take it. Nepal is behind me. Soon, this will be, too. Church is dead, I killed him myself. It is somewhat strange to me that I am not flooded with guilt, but I have a sinking feeling it will come. The sound of his neck snapping will come back to haunt me, but first, I must first sate and vacate the current demons before inviting more.

"Are you joking?" he asks me dismissively. "You're pale as a ghost."

"Truly," I say, losing my nerve as I bat a stray pine broom out of my face, as he is focused more on fast pacing than me. Why is Trench so eager to make tracks?

I cannot stand it: my tortured mind and body rebel at this clinical and emotionless touch. Distantly, it makes me remember Barney's first trek with me in his arms. He'd measured his pace because of my then-injuries, scarcely stopped looking at me in concern. Not so with this courier. I ache for my love. "Would you just put me - !" I splutter with tired indignation and a little hysteria.

We clear the woods as I speak, approaching a black SUV with lots of 'tricks', and the tall man unceremoniously drops my legs. I stifle a gasp as the impact of my feet makes pain shoot through my myriad hurts. He seems antsy, urgent, like he's expecting trouble. The ground shakes under us, like a far-away earthquake, and the sound of an explosion reaches us a moment after. Our gazes go back to the forest.

"Sounds like Booker's joining us soon," comments Trench, relaxing slightly. He reaches around me, again invading my personal space, and opens the rear passenger door to the SUV. "Get in."

I glare at him. 'Pissed', I believe, is the term Barney taught me for this emotion rising in me, and exhuastion, and overwhelmed. Swallowing any sharp retort, I climb stiffly into SUV. Some of my wounds are leaking, making my eyes water. "I'll stain the - "

"In," he urges, looking back towards the woods.

I fold my legs in as quickly as the new bloodflow will allow, and he slams the door shut.

"Why the rush?" I ask angrily as he slides into the passenger seat in front of me.

"Do you want to be here when the rangers show up?" he asks, matching my tone.

I glare at him again, and let my breath frost the window. What is his problem? Is this his 'work mode'? Are all mercenaries this stone cold when on a job?

Booker lopes out of the woods, slowing to a walk as he nears the SUV. He opens the driver's door. "You're driving," he tells Trench. The taller man scoots over the center console and into the seat without argument, twisting the key in the ignition as Booker opens the rear driver's side door. With a startling athletic grace, he slides onto the bench seat with me.

He meets my eyes, and the effect is like a blissful cold waterfall, dousing my flaming, out-of-control emotions and bolstering my flagging composure. "Here," he murmurs, fishing under the seat. Pulling out a olive green plastic box, he sets it between us. When he unslings his gun from his shoulders, I have to fight back my tears, as he strongly reminds me of Barney performing the same motion.

He opens the box as Trench bounces us through some thin meadows, towards the swath of a road cut through the park's edge. "What hurts worst?" Booker asks, voice soothing in its cool, neutral manner. Again, the effect is calming, deadening my half-crazed feelings. From what little Barney has told me of the man, and my own frayed intuition, I find the man's demeanor indicative of a quiet, steadfast soul.

Just what I need, right now, in lieu of Barney's embrace.

"Here," I find my voice lowering to tie with his. I cup my hipbone, wincing, but do not lift my shirt. I feel like a piece of me would break off if I have to take off any clothes, show any extra skin: my harshest memories are nipping at the surface of my mind. In fact, I would give anything for a blanket to completely tent myself inside of, shut out the world and marinate in dark, quiet, aloneness.

Booker's eyes flicker to my hand and he seems to understand.

Trench is constantly looking into the rearview mirror, checking for pursuit, and perhaps eyeing the two of us. We must be surprisingly quiet, but what does he expect from an anemic, exhuasted, and pained rescuee and a man nicknamed the Lone Wolf? As we jostle onto a paved road and gain traction under Trench's heavy boot, Booker tacitly rips open and hands me a gauze pad, and I press it to the oozing wound under my shirt. The amount of blood on my clothes is faintly impressive: huge burgundy splotches and drops all over them, especially the sides of my shirt, where my lacerated arms brushed. It is the green shirt with the bird on the hip that made Barney's eyes go wide when he saw me in it. I tear up again, senselessly, when I realize it is ruined.

"You've lost a lot of blood," remarks Booker. Moving slowly, giving me time to either steel myself or shift away, he reaches out to check my wrist pulse. I try not to shudder under the touch of two fingers. "You could use some IV fluids. You know how those work?"

"Needle," I whisper. I instinctively cover the crooks of my arms, eyeing him warily. "No," I say, a little louder.

"You might pass out," he cautions, without pushiness.

"No," I repeat in a whisper. Lightheadedness is a small price to pay for keeping invasions out of my body, however small. I almost was raped again, back there.

He nods. Dipping into the box again, he pulls out a water bottle and cracks the lid for me, so I do not have to move my occupied hand. I suck down most of the bottle before coming up for breath, astonished at my thirst. "Thank you," I gasp, regaining my voice.

His eyes peg me again, and a specter of a smile tips his lips.

"We should call Barney," Trench says, like a stone dropping into my puddle of calm.

"Good idea," says Booker, not taking his eyes off me.

_Barney._ My love must be worried sick.

Trench takes a hand off the wheel to fish around in a duffle bag in the footwell, withdrawing a chunky-looking phone. Dividing his vision, he dials a long number, and the phone starts to ring noisily.

When I look back at Booker to see him scrutinizing me, my gaze skitters away, hiding my shakiness. Without a word, he removes a bottle of wound disinfectant, more gauze, and some bandage wrap. "May I see your arm?" he asks neutrally, like I am completely allowed to refuse.

I revel in the choice, but my ebbing adrenaline is starting to seriously make the pain of my cuts surge back, burning all over, seeping messily with every movement. I hold out my unused arm for his inspection. Bandages would hold the throbbing edges of my skin together. The phone to Trench's ear continues to ring, bounding over the planet to connect me and Barney.

My silent nurse carefully cleans the cuts with sure and gentle strokes of cold-soaked gauze. The burn of the disinfectant makes me clench my hand, and hold my breath to keep from hissing in pain.

This feels intimate, and I am not sure if I can stand it. I had what felt like soul-to-dirty-soul contact with Church during my captivity. Physical touch is only a step below.

I feel the strength that enabled me to kill Church well up again. If I am strong enough to kill my captor and torturer, then I am strong enough to do this. Forcibly, I inhale, exhale, and untense my fisted hand. Booker means me no harm, and only good (there is a distinction, I know). Trench, too, in his brusque way.

Booker gingerly rotates my hand to expose my mangled wrist, and when he meets less resistance than before, I see that same ghost of a smile.

Suddenly, the phone beeps loudly, and the speaker snaps. _"This is Ross." _The speaker volume is enough for me to hear, even though Trench holds the phone.

"Church is dead," says the Austrian. "We got Meera. She's safe."

"Barney?" I say, my soul brightening immeasurably at the sound of his voice. "Barney!" Four days of not hearing him might as well have been four days of deafness.

"Meera?" queries the voice of my love. "Trench, Booker! You found her!"

"That we did," replies Trench proudly.

I wriggle up between the seats, forgetting my wounds, and beg the tall man, "Please let me talk to him." I pump my open hand in front of him, forcing him to move his head to continue to safely drive.

"Let me talk to her!" demands Barney.

"Fine, fuck, here," says Trench, slapping the phone in my hand.

"Barney!" I cry delightedly. Tears well up yet again, and I let them spill over.

"Meera! Baby, are you alright? Are you hurt?" His tone is urgent and concerned.

"Nothing big," I say. It is a lie, because Booker taps me on the back and indicates the drops of blood on the console under my hip. The gauze had fallen away in my haste. "Nothing that will not heal."

"Oh, baby, my Meera," his voice breaks slightly, and I stiffle a sob. "I'm coming home as soon as I can. I swear, I'll come."

"It is alright, Barney," I say, sniffling. "I am safe."

"I nee- ... see ...-ou."

"Barney? Can you hear me?"

"Mee-... -ear me?"

"Barney?" I ask, more than slightly panicky.

Booker plucks the phone from my grasp, tapping a few buttons, reading the screen. "The connection was lost. There must be some weather on his end."

I feel unforgivably cheated, like an addict watching his drug be flushed. Miserably, I dash the tears from my eyes, then take back the phone and cradle it sadly. Booker clears his throat, pointedly holding out a fresh gauze pad. I press it to my reopened wound dejectedly, and when he extends an Ace bandage, I let the phone drop to the seat. He wraps my arm, politely not meeting my teary eyes.

"The storm will clear up soon," says Trench suddenly, glancing into the rearview mirror. "And your loverboy will call back."

He is trying to be nice. I detect a hint of underlying guilt in his words, and decide to take pity on him. "Thank you."

The miles pass sullenly, slowly. Booker finishes wrapping both my arms from shoulder to wrist, putting an adhesive bandage on my neck, applying a familiar cast over my nose, and butterfly stitches over my temple, but cannot convince me to expose my hip to his aid. He does not test my resolve in the matter, and I credit him with more intuition than previously fathomed. He trades my empty water bottle for a new one, hands me a coarse blanket exactly like the ones at home, and vacates the bench seat in favor of the passenger seat.

"You can sleep, if you like," says Trench gruffly. I can tell he is trying not to sound soft.

My lids have been heavy for hours, if I were honest. As I lay across the seat, curling up with a hand on my hurting hip, and am nearly asleep when a thought floats up from my tired subconscious. Trench's guilt, which is making him act so stiffly towards me, must be because he feels bad for unintentionally causing my capture. If he had not thrust this job upon Barney and the guys, Church would not have been able to kidnap me.

"Trench?" I say tentatively.

I see his spine straighten. "Yeah?"

"It is not your fault I got taken."

His hard but seeking eyes flicker to the mirror.

"Church has been watching Barney for a long time. He would have gotten me eventually, to get to Barney because of his refusal to kill the Kreshes."

Booker twists in his seat. "So Barney told you?"

I nod, already drifting off. "I do not blame you, Trench."

The mercenary's gaze loses a fraction of its roughness. He nods almost imperceptibly, and goes back to driving.

I fall into a heavy sleep, the waters of my slumber without waves, but occasionally roiling faintly as though disturbed by something deep down.

* * *

**Barney:**

"Motherfuck!" I shout frustratedly. "Work, you sonofabitch!" I punch the buttons on the phone for the fifth time, the wind whips snow around me in a gust that obscures the mountain view of my outcropping perch, as well as my hand.

I suck in a freezing breath until it passes, but there is more where that came from: thick, dark clouds caress the peaks all around. Stubbornly, I continue to dial and redial, to no avail.

"There eez bad weather rolling down the moutain," says Nadia timidly, minding my mood. She has come up behind me, presumably the unlucky short straw of the group, and now lays a gloved hand on my shoulder. "You must come into the tent, before you cannot see it."

I shrug off her hand, growling because of the lack of signal. I know she's right though, so I turn heel and stomp down the outcrop. I'm lucky the blizzard broke when it did, or I would never have gotten you, Trench, and Booker's call.

_You. _You're safe, and it's a Panzer tank off my chest. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in twelve hours. I know you're hurt, I could hear it in your voice, and it addles me that I don't know how bad, that I can't tend your wounds myself. What did Church do to you for twelve hours? Can you walk? Did that motherfucker rape you? A shocking image of your bloody legs and you screaming my name surfaces, and I shove it back. I would know by your voice if that had happened, I would. The very thought makes me want to eviscerate him with my bare hands, but according to Trench, Church is beyond any revenge I can exact.

"You said you would come to her," says Nadia, puffing along at a jog behind me. "How?"

"I've got a plan," I reply. "It was originally the fly-Stateside-to-kill-Church plan, but I tweaked and relabled it." I whip back the tent door, and am met by six apprehensive faces.

"Well?" prompts Christmas.

"Is the sheila alright?" queries Sullivan, sounding more worried than I gave him credit for. He's meshed with us well in a matter of hours, and when this is all over, I'm considering poaching him from Trench's team. That would make Mauser shit bricks.

"Meera's alive, she's safe," I reply with evident relief, and everyone in the tent sighs.

"Thank the Lord," mutters Ceasar.

"Is she hurt?" asks Gunnar.

"Is Church dead?" follows up Yang.

"Whoa, whoa," I chuckle, cracking my first smile in a long time. "She's hurt, yeah, but she didn't say how bad. Church is dead."

"Good riddance, the bastard," appoves Toll.

There is several minutes of questioning, answering, and speculation upon what little my phone call gleaned for information. The snowstorm descends, howling and rustling the drafty tent like a wild animal, but as happy as I am, I feel like I could walk naked through it and whistle Dixie.

"I said I would go see her," I reveal, guaging the reactions.

"If Kresh sees one of us leave, he will check on Shawn and me, and discover our escape before we are ready to reveal it," points out Yang. "You cannot be seen leaving."

"I hate to be the wet blanket," adds Christmas begrudgingly. "But there is still the matter of the UAV watching our every move."

This only dampens my celebration a little, like spitting on a fire. "Actually, I have a plan for that."

The Englishman looks surprised. "You do?"

"I've had twelve hours of thinking time. But first, does anyone mind me tapping out for a few days?"

Gunnar snorts. "Hell, no. You earned it, with this mess."

"What the Swede said," agrees Yang, earning a jostle from his tall friend.

"Let's foster _that_ cookie swap!" crows Ceasar, waggling his eyebrows.

"Enlighten us, fearless leader," jokes Toll.

"Do you boys still wanna make your money?" I ask.

"I do," says Yang immediately. "I have mouths to feed."

"You and the mouse in your pocket," snarks Toll.

"And Nadia, you still wanna journalize?" I continue.

"Yes," she replies, straightening, her eyes hardening. "I will deal with my father when I am through. I know I can sell the stories I find here, and I will put the money to good use. After this job, I will move where he cannot find me and start a new life, away from his dirty business."

Gunnar nods, looking at her with some pride. So _that's_ what they've been talking about in their corner of the tent. Leave it to an ex-addict to encourage a captive to free herself.

"So the job is still on," I continue. "Kresh no longer matters. Trench will pay us - "

"Damn right," interjects Sullivan.

"Counting Yang, and subtracting me and Sullivan, we have enough bodies to trick Kresh's eye in the sky. See what I'm saying?'

"Yeah, I'm picking up what you're laying down," says Ceasar. The big black man stretches out on his sleeping bag. "Looks like it worked out good."

"I'm just glad the worst is over," says Toll, wriggling into his bag.

"I'll keep first watch," volunteers Gunnar, unfolding his lanky legs.

"May I assist?" queries Nadia softly. The Swede looks surprised, but delightedly smiles and opens the tent door with a bow.

"I might be sick," groans Christmas, huffing into his hands to warm them.

"There really is someone for everyone, am I right?" says Sullivan, unrolling his bag.

I recline on my own bag and allow myself another smile. "Yeah." Reaching over to dim the lantern, I say, "Time for bed, brats."

"But, dad!" squeaks Ceasar, contorting his deep voice hilariously.

_Someone for everyone. _My someone is on the other side of the planet now, hurting, shaken, and missing me, but safe. And that is more than I could ever have hoped for.

I fall asleep embarassingly fast, almost too quick to realize, and I dream about you again. This time, you sit on the outcropping I occupied for the twelve worst hours of my life, your knobby, brown, and nude back to me as I climb the hill. The curve of your spine to your hip and the round of your perfect ass solidly steals my attention.

You pat the snow next to you, and I sit down beside you. "I thought I'd lose you forever," I say hoarsely.

"I am here," you assure softly, reaching up to cup my cheek coldly. God, I can _feel_ your fingers. Your dream touch is real enough to make my heart skip a beat.

I move my head to kiss your palm, and look into your dark, coffee eyes. "I'll see you soon."

You smile beautifically, and I have my reply.


	35. Chapter 35

**Trench:**

I hate to bring any damn emotion into this, but I feel shitty for the little Nepali asleep behind me. Compulsively, I look at her still and blanketed form in the mirror, where the tan of the Ace bandage on her exposed arm contrasts the olive green cover sharply.

I feel shittier when I realize she's going to scar spectacularly from this ordeal.

She looks still as death, and the creamer is heavier than it should be in her coffee skin. She looks damn unhealthy, even without the knife marks and bruising and broken face. Dare I say that I'm actually _worried _about her? Nah, can't be. I just don't want Barney tearing me a new asshole if she gets any worse. I'm gonna have fucking hell to pay when he comes around, because he will certainly find that the bear trap of blame fits my ankle perfectly. On that note, I check the mirror yet again.

Her hair has fallen over her face except for her busted lips, which are parted with exhaustion. It's weird how a truly drained body sleeps differently than a simply tired one. If my imagination holds any water, Meera - erm, the Nepali - deserves this depth of sleep. The things on her outsides that bleed are only the tip of the iceberg of what Church did to her.

I swallow a growl,, tightening my hands on the wheel to white knuckle grips. What the hell? Soft ain't one of my ingredients. Suddenly this Nepali, a complete stranger to me, takes a swinging stroll in my arms and I'm getting misty-eyed? Fuck me...

My conscience, or what ate it, reminds me that she has a name. Meera.

"ETA of, what, fifty miles?" queries Booker absently. He is texting someone, presumably his Asian wife.

"Yeah, thereabouts," I confirm, looking at the miles/trip counter. We're speaking softly, but I doubt we could wake the boneless heap passed out behind us. I gesture at the phone. "You two pop out any lil' dumplings yet?"

Booker's response is a quasi-baleful glare and a genuine answer, "Not yet. But we started trying only a couple months ago." He continues to thumb away at the phone. His continuation is reluctant, like he is loathe to admit interest. "You found anyone worth sticking around for?"

I'm a little stunned by his question, and it causes me to give a real reply. "Nah, not yet. But she's out there."

He nods, as though approving my mindset. Thank God he's not a talker, because I would be busting my balls right now, if I were him. I sneer internally. _She's out there? _Really? I might as well start singing: "Sooomedaaay my prince will come..." I snort quietly. My ass...

"What are we going to do about her?" Booker asks.

I frown, because it's an extremely pertinent and vexing question. "I didn't sign up for nannying duty," I point out. "Neither did you, if I recall."

He twists in his seat to look at our little tagalong. "We can't just leave her to fend for herself. She can barely sit up, much less walk."

"Who says she'd have to walk?" I ask obstinantly. "We set her up on the couch with enough water and food, and she'll be fine until Barney skids in."

"Did he give you a timeline for that?"

I scowl. "No." For the millionth time, I look in the mirror at Meera. She's thin like a damn razor, all her blood is on her clothes and smeared on the seat, and she's just come off the shitty end of a CIA-level interrogation session. I sigh explosively. "Fine. I'll stay with her."

Booker considers my declaration for a moment, then nods decisively and bends to his cell's keyboard. "Then so will I. Last thing you need is Barney fucking you up because you were alone with his woman."

I scrub my face wearily. "He'll be doing that for other reasons, I'm sure."

Booker contemplates my statement. "Because you enabled Church to nab Meera?"

"Unintentionally, but yup." I salute the shorter man mockingly. "It's been nice knowing you, Booker."

"At least you're man enough not to run," he comments, and goes back to composing his text.

It was an insult at first glance, but there might have been a compliment in there, somewhere.

I scratch my stubble, wondering how Sullivan is faring in Casa de Kresh. Hopefully not too shabby. I'll get him out of there in a matter of days, though, when I show Kresh that I paid Barney and his brood. Although it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to have millions in my account and have to (mostly) give it back, I know it has to be done. I have no real comraderie with the men of my crew: they do their jobs and come and go as their contracts allow. But if I leave Shawn there to rot and eventually die, I'll lose all credibility and respect among the brotherhood of mercs. Can't have that, can I?

With my mind occupied, I set the cruise a few miles under the speed limit and carry the fallen birdy back to her nest. Little does she know, she just got a vulture and a hawk to guard her recovery.

* * *

**Barney:**

We all wake up, decide on a preliminary plan, and Ceasar makes us reconstituted eggs on the camp stove. With some hilarity, we find that they freeze on our spoons like nasty protien-sicles. When Christmas jams one against my ear like the world's grossest wet willy, it starts a rumble that lasts the better part of ten minutes. The guys are practically crying with laughter, and Nadia is leaned against Gunnar with side clutched.

"Tap, snap, or nap, mate!" shouts Sullivan from the tent, where he and Yang watch and eat out of the UAV's sight.

"Alright, alright!" hollers Christmas, loosening his grapple hold on me. I let go at the same time, grinning like a new man. I _feel_ like a new man: you're safe, and I'll be seeing you soon. We stand up, brush the snow off, and grasp hands in a mockery of a mutual congrats. It's a mockery because between Christmas and I, winning don't matter: it's playing the game.

"Anyone seen it, yet?" I ask, rolling my shoulder where my best friend locked my joint. Said friend snickers at me, earning an affectionate slug to the arm.

"Not yet. The clouds are too thick," replies Toll, still chuckling.

The premise of such a prolonged breakfast is to see if the UAV shows itself. But time is running thin on us: Nadia's next appointment is another day's walk away. We aren't too worried about making it in time if the weather plays nice like this morning, but if another storm were to blow in, travel plans would be shot. Not only would the guys and Nadia be stuck, so would Sullivan and I. I'd probably be tempted to rip my hair out, if that were to happen.

I squint at the mid-level ceiling of clouds, which are breaking apart towards the east and being chased out by the sun. "It's not worth waiting any longer: we'll lose our cloud cover. We'll have to assume that if we can't see it, it can't see us."

"Time to shake, rattle and roll," says Ceasar, rubbing his hands together.

In a few minutes, the shit is packed. All that is left is the tent, which hides our two escapees.

"Gunnar, show me this cave," I say. "Sullivan, be ready to move."

"Right, mate," replied the Aussie.

Nadia and her boytoy found a small, flattish cave last night while on watch. As Gunnar leads the way, going further and further down the trail, I find myself wondering just _what_ they were doing this far from camp during their watch. I should bark at the Swede for straying so far with the client, much less during his watch. But the mountains feel rather empty, now that the CIA pawns are dead and stiff in the snowbank. Plus, he's never acted this way with a woman before, not in all my years of knowing him. I have to smile to myself, because I'm getting the impression I know something he doesn't. Is that how the guys looked at me and Meera? Did they know we were in love before we did?

"Here," says Gunnar, crouching to brush aside a mound of snow. I crouch next to him and shine a flashlight into the small opening,, which is just wide enough for two men to lay flat beside each other. It's rock on all sides, about a foot high, and goes back around nine feet. Tight squeeze for two burly guys, but beggars can't be choosers.

"It'll do nicely," I reply.

Suddenly, Gunnar sits back on his heels and looks at me funny, like he's got something on his mind.

I give an exagerrated groan. "I know that look. Tell me what's up, Gunnar."

"Barney, I got a suspicion," he starts, testing my waters.

"Yeah, Gun?"

He rubs the back of his unkempt head. "It's about Meera."

Now my curiousity and caution are piqued. "Yeah?" I reply, trying to stay neutral. My mind flies through every encounter he's had with Meera: at Tool's place, a few phone conversations to arrange book exchanges...

"I think that Meera has an eidetic memory."

I frown, from mouth to brow. "Isn't that like a photographic memory?" I ask, bemused.

"By definition, yes," replies the former Fullbright scholar, drawing a pattern in the powder at his boots. "But nothing crazy. Her memory is mostly written-word-specific. Think about it, Barney. Has she ever recited large amounts of information? Stuff she wouldn't know and you wouldn't expect her to have remembered from just reading?"

"Yeah..." I say, trying to follow. It sounds too far-fetched for my mind to wrap around. I love you and your curious brain, but a random little half-Nepali woman being a Brainy Smurf? It feels like picking a random fish out of the ocean, and that fish being a concert pianist. Then, I remembered the day I taught you to shoot handguns. You knew every gun, right down to the caliber, even though you'd never seen them before except for in my books. When I had asked you what you knew, your instant and unassuming reply of "Everything," had baffled me.

"I think that's why she hurts the way she does," continues Gunnar slowly.

I pin him with a Look that says 'watch it'. Your dirty laundry will _not_ be aired by anyone, friend or not.

"I don't know exactly how you found her, or what her story is," says the Swede uncomfortably. "But I know a wounded soul when I see one. Whatever trauma she faced in Nepal... well, let's just say she may never completely get over it, not with her memory."

An ugly thought occurs to me. "Trauma makes it more memorable?"

"Like for anyone else, yeah."

I am thrown back to the night you broke, the night you let it all go and rose from your ashes. You told me that you closed your eyes after six rapists, and that you weren't sure how many more came after them. Although it sickens me to reopen that box of empathetic pain, I distinctly recall you saying that you couldn't remember. I had assumed you meant 'couldn't' in the sense of 'blocking it out', not in the literal sense of 'could not'.

I scrub my face, my thoughts a whirlpool. If this idea of Gunnar's holds any water, did Church completely derail any recovery you'd made in the two months you've been with me? What fresh hell has your gifted brain left you to relive?

"Does she read weird stuff, like manuals for appliances?" asks Gunnar, breaking my inflection.

I look at him with surprise. "How did you know that?"

A grin flits over his face. "Classic. Put yourself in her shoes. She's new to the modern world, fresh out of the jungle, with only basic English skills. But she can _read _English better than she can speak and understand it. She knows without consciously realizing that, by reading, she can absorb the culture extremely quickly."

I stare blindly at the cave before us, processing. "Practically the first thing she did," I recall. "Is pick up a book off my shelf."

"You remember that night at Tool's?" he presses on. "I suspected then, by the way she talked. She was practically quoting old army manuals, and T. S. Elliot, too. Let me tell you, that shit ain't easy." He stands, as do I. "I tested her by sending her one of my old US history textbooks. She was a fountain of info overnight."

"So she can remember practically anything she reads?" I confirm, slightly dumbfounded.

"Yeah. And a lot of what she sees, too, but not as strongly."

"I gotta tell you, Gun, this seems a little out there."

"It's not that rare, not really," he replies. "Quite a few people have it, in varying degrees."

I scowl at the trail as we start to walk. It brings a lot of things into clarity, answers a lot of questions. So your odd thirst for knowledge is all part of that incredible brain's workings? But if your super memory is stonger with trauma, what lasting effects will Church's tender mercies have on you?

But that would mean she remembers good things, too. Like our kiss.

Damn, I'm gonna have a job to do, when I get home.

We trudge back up to the overlook, where the team waits. I put aside my musings and new worries for now. "Guys, do your jobs well," I say, meeting every eye. "Watch each other's backs. Keep Nadia out of trouble."

"I think we need to keep 'trouble'..." mutters Yang, thumbing none-too-subtly at Gunnar. "...Out of her."

"Ceasar, I'm gonna need some soy sauce from you," comments Gunnar, smiling murderously at Yang while Nadia blushes deeply. "I feel like eggrolls tonight."

Yang's shit-eating grin is all I need for assurance, and I snort. They'll be fine. "I'll see you all in a few days. I have your schedule, so I know where you'll be." I make a round 'em up gesture at Sullivan, who steps out of the tent. "Let's make the switch."

He and I dash down the trail, sling our bags into the cave first, and slide in behind them like runners into home plate. With any luck to our names, the clouds are enough to cover our escape. We wait a few hours until the crew leads the UAV onward like a kite strung to Nadia, and then Sullivan and I head for the plane, which is about a hard day's journey.

We lay panting in the thin cave, and Sullivan chuckles. "Reminds me of the old-fashioned foxholes, eh?"

I grin back and nod. Turning onto my back is impossible, and the cold stone ceiling presses against my back slightly. If it weren't for my pride and exercise ethic, I'd say I needed to lose weight. The stone is freezing against what little skin is exposed by our thermal gear, but at least we are sheltered from the worst cold. There is rock above, below, and to my left. Sullivan is to my right. "Feels like the mountain's on top of us," I mutter, flexing up to test the weight. No budge, but that's expected.

"Don't say that," groans Sullivan. "I'm gonna get claustrophobic by the end of a few hours."

"I hope you pissed before you crawled in here."

"You, too," he shoots back with a smirk.

"Shoulda brought the newest Danielle Steel to pass the time."

"Keep your Steel: Mills and Boon are top-notch, where I come from."

And so it goes. I am able to put you, your super memory, and worry about your condition out of my mind for a while as I pass time with Sullivan. Before he yawns and starts to nap, I plumb him surreptitiously about a change in bosses. "My fucking contract ain't up for another five months," he gripes. "He's a shitty boss, but at least he pays well."

"He left you to rot in Kresh's mansion," I point out.

"Eh, he'd've let me go eventually, when Trench paid you."

Sullivan's a man of integreity. He seems favorable, but feels dutiful to Trench. I think I can change his mind.

So while the Aussie snores softly beside me and the sun slowly creeps the shadows across the mountains, I cast my mind forward, to the near future where I get to hold you in my arms again. I can smell your hair, see your smile-crinkled eyes, taste your lips.

When we are finally safe to gratefully bust out of our foxhole, Sullivan has to urge me to slow down, or I'll leave him in the dust. I do, but just barely. Thoughts of you swirl in my head and spur me on.

* * *

**Meera:**

I wake from my engrossing doze to the sensation of the SUV moving across tarmac, which makes a different noise than asphalt. Keeping my eyes closed, I let my aches and pains start their four-part harmony, dulled by the various bandages and a kindly dose of painkillers.

The amount of pain that the medicine does _not _touch is disconcerting. Wincing, I inhale sharply as my ribs hinder the breath. Even the cushion of the bench seat makes them sing. Suspending my weight on my wrists for the better part of twelve hours might have shifted the bones, because they click with sharp, bright pain when I crook my fingers. All the muscles used in the suspension and abused in the capture and interrogation by Church's hard, unrelenting fists suggest a lovely matrix of bruises will soon make me look like a world map. One eye has swollen partially shut (ironically, the same one as from Nepal), and my nose is throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I groan softly to myself. Of all things, my damned _nose _had to get broken, again!

Taking stock of both my own body and the two occupying the front seats, I marinate in my last few moments of mental peace, because when I open my eyes, I will have to face the music. I will have to embark on yet another healing journey. But, somehow, this journey feels less intimidating than my last one. As I examine the feeling, I take significant comfort in its genuineness. I am hurt. I am shaken.

But I am not broken.

The surge of victory floods me, and I smile and open my eyes as we roll to a stop in the shadow of the hangar.

"Hey," murmurs Booker, reaching over and lightly jostling my knee. "We're home."

I sit up laboriously and rub my bleary eyes, but catch him looking at me strangely, as though he is surprised by my smile. Silly man: doesn't he understand the depth of my strength, born of harsher tribulations than this? Doesn't he know from my pore-wept aura that the previous scars do not hold a candle to the ones now? The past terrors and traumas dwarf the current ones, but, with only a little urging, I know I can coax the stitches on my soul cover the present wounds.

Memories can only fade, if my time with Barney has taught me anything.

Trench and Booker get out of the SUV, and by the time Booker has opened the door to access me, Trench has come around the vehicle. "I've got her," mutters the tall Austrian, reaching in.

This time, I don't need to avoid his touch on a soul-deep level. My pride, on the other hand, rears up. "I can walk, Trench Mauser." Perhaps using the fullest name I have for him will be emphasis enough.

In light of my current empowerment, I am surprised to find his will stronger than mine. He pins me with a longsuffering look, planting his hands on either side of the door. "Look," he begins with a sigh. "I know I'm not your first choice, here. But Barney is on his way, and until then, you're stuck with me and Booker."

I study his face, noting the lingering guilt and Booker shrugging behind him, and reluctantly nod. In an awkward shift and jumble of limbs, I am lifted out of the SUV bridal-style.

"Oh," I grunt, touching my head.

"What?" asks my tall courier.

"Dizzy," I whisper, my head spinning. Pity, my internal championing does not carry to my body. Moving around makes me notice the weakness of bloodloss pervading my heavy limbs and fuzzy brain.

Booker puts a hand to my temple, gauging my temperature. "Let's get her inside. She's hot as hell."

My brow furrows, exacerbating the spinning sensation. "Am I?" I query in surprise.

As we turn and start to walk into the hangar, we all notice the VW Beetle at the same time. I have closed my eyes to ward off the dizziness, but open them when I hear rapid bootfalls coming towards us. Oh, no. Not good.

"Who the fuck is that?" asks Booker quietly, flipping off his holstered pistol's safety.

Trench does not debate. "Who the fuck are you?" he calls warningly.

"Meera? Meera, is that you?" asks January, her voice rising in alarm. She breaks into a run. "Meera! What the fuck happened?"

I smile wearily, closing my eyes again. "Hey, Airy. What are you doing here?"

"Oh," figures out Trench. "It's the dike from the video!"

Booker grunts, clicking the safety back on. "So it is."

"What the hell...?" trails off Airy, blatantly ignoring the crude men, her focus on me. The fingers that lightly and worriedly cup my face are faintly shaking.

"You!" Airy addresses Trench in her warehouse-floor voice. Trench stiffens. "What happened? I was here not fourty-eight hours ago!"

"Ma'am," interjects Booker, cutting off the mounting hysteria. "I'll be happy to explain, but right now, Meera needs a bed and some serious care. Please stand down."

I can feel the clash of three type-A personalities like an electric charge in the air.

"Who says she can stay?" asks Trench, his hold on me tightening slightly.

"I stay where I want, thank you," replies Airy curtly.

"Hey," I say weakly. They do not hear me. I probably should tell them that there is blackness eating at my vision.

"We don't need you around, lady," says Trench irritably.

"Meera's my _friend,_" snaps Airy. "I need to help."

"Hey," I say, mustering a bit more volume. The blackness encroaches more with each second.

"Ma'am," repeats Booker, a little more forcibly. "I'll fill you in, just - "

"And exactly who are you two?" growls Airy, warming to her protective instincts. I hear two safeties flick off, both Booker and January squaring off.

"HEY!" I shout. The outburst makes me even dizzier, but the effect is as desired.

They fall silent, but only reluctantly so.

"January," I pant slightly, still cradling my head. "I don't mind if you stay."

"Thank you," she replies, shooting a victorious gaze at Trench.

"I think I'm going to..." Oh. Yes, there it is. The blackness takes over and swallows me, and I pass out.


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Note: Sorry for the quickie chapter, ya'll. Really, I thought I'd take pity on my fans, who are so deprived yet so loving, and leave them with something rather than nothing. **

**I'm leaving for a weekend Jesus camp. Yay! So excited! I'll be wrapping the story up in two or three chapters, max. Enjoy your long weekend.**

* * *

**Booker:**

We get Meera inside pretty quickly after she passes out. I deduce the bed with the long hairs and girly scent on the pillow to be hers, and Airy throws a common army blanket over it. Despite the implications of her rebellious haircut, I admire the way this woman thinks ahead.

"Holy..." the lesbian - this _Airy_ person - murmurs, her hand coming away sticky from Meera's hip. "What the hell?" she demands accusitorily.

"She wouldn't let me tend it," I supply, diverting my defensiveness.

"Well, it's getting tended now," Airy determines. "Where's your IFAK?" **(AN: Individual First Aid Kit, army slang)**

"Trench," I start.

"On it," replies the Austrian, striding outside.

Airy strokes back Meera's hair with her clean hand worriedly. "She's burning up."

"Church gave her something nasty several hours ago," I say, indicating the needle mark on her inner arm. Walking to the hall of showers, I speak up to be heard as I wet a washtowel. "I found the syringe in his trashcan, and it smelled like shrooms."

"Please," she turns to eye me with misdirected murder as I return. "Please tell me that son of a gonosyphilatic whore is dead."

"He is," I confirm, taking a seat opposite of her, the reposed Meera between us. We share corners of the same towel, and I help her tease the dried blood carefully off the little Nepali's face. She twitches as the slight pain penetrates her sleep. "Would you believe Meera killed him herself?"

Airy stills and looks at me again, this time, for truth. "Are you serious?"

I nod, and can't help but grin. "Snapped his neck with her legs, while hanging from the ceiling by her wrists."

The woman looks at her friend, eyes wide. "Well, damn, girl," she chuckles. "I thought you might have it in you..."

"Got it," says Trench, reentering the room with his prize.

"Good," says Airy, taking it from him. "Now's the time for you two to wait outside. Meera's old fashioned, unconscious or not."

I get the feeling that 'old-fashioned' is code for 'scarred by something that would make my gut twist'. Airy may not know what, exactly, but it gratifies to know I'm not the only one who's picked up on it, or the only one who respects it. Trench and I look at each other. The conversation without words is as follows:

_What the hell? Who is she to order us around? Who is she, in the first place? _

_Meera knows her and trusts her enough to let her stay. _

_That could have been the drugs talking (I heard the last part of the conversation). Will Meera be safe with her? _

_Ross would shoot us both if we fucked this one up._

Standing up, I lower my voice threateningly. "If you hurt her..."

"Don't worry," she replies, not rising to the bait. "I love her the same way Barney does. Well," she smirks. "Not _exactly _the same way, but with the same depth."

"What's Airy short for, anyway?" asks Trench pointedly. "So we know how to threaten you right."

The spiky-haired woman rolls her eyes, but oblidges. "January. Post-army entreprenuer, old friend of Barney's, newer friend of Meera's. I like long walks on the beach that end with sand-fucking." Her eyes harden. "Now _git._"

Trench's expression is priceless, and I fight back my smile as we dutifully adjourn to the hangar bay. "I like her," I state.

"I hate her guts," replies Trench, leaning against the corrougated metal wall. "But yeah, I kinda do, too."

"We might be here a while," I sigh. "That hip's going to need stitches."

The other man grunts, then reaches into his inner tac vest pocket. "Stoagie?"

Even though I don't particularly like cigars, I accept the peace offering. Our smoke comingles amiably.

* * *

**Meera:**

I wake up with my body reminding me I am very much alive in a harmony of stiffness and soreness. Someone is bathing my face with a wet cloth, and I smell cigar smoke.

My heart leaps with joy. "Barney?" I say excitedly, eyes opening.

January greets me with an apologetic look, cloth poised. "No, sugar. Sorry, but it's just me."

My face and insides fall in bitter disappointment. My friend is sympathetic, and stays silent while I gather myself. "How long was I asleep?"

"If by 'asleep' you mean 'dead to the world', about an hour." Leaning over the edge of the bed, she starts to repack the medical kit. "You needed fluids, so I hooked 'em up while you were sleeping, even though Booker told me you said no needles. You can be mad, if you want. I know it was a dirty thing to do."

I flex my arm carefully, testing the tenderness of the bend. "How can I be mad when I feel better?" My earlier crawl-in-a-hole-and-hibernate inclinations have faded to the back of my mind. It will take more than a needle while I sleep to bring them to the surface. Rehydrating intravaneously worked miracles on my condition, mentally and physically.

Airy looks relieved. "I sent Mauser and Booker outside while I patched your hip." She avoids my gaze. "I hope you didn't mind. I assumed you wouldn't let them see it because... well, because they're men."

"Yes. It was," I reply simply. Investigating the tugging sensation on my hip leads to the discovery of eight stitches in a slight curve, right over the bone. "Ouch."

"Do they hurt too much? I think I went a little tight on the third one."

"No, no, they are fine," I reply tiredly.

"And also, I gave you another dose of painkillers. They'll be knocking you on your ass shortly."

I smile, recognizing the pleasant numbness, but it turns into an outright yawn. "Remind me to be offended when I wake up."

"You know, when you're ready to talk, I'm here for you, girl." She grasps my hand, and I know she means more than just Church.

Although I still feel sluggish, I manage to squeeze her back. "I know. And one day, I will."

Airy grins in such a way that her face completely softens, and I can suddenly understand why females are attracted to her. "Looking forward to it."

It does not bother me as much as I had reckoned that she has picked up on my peculiarities, and is making reasonable assumptions based on them. My problems are just that: problems. They do not define me, nor will I let them stiffle my current strivings.

On my purple-stained back there is still the thin lines of Tool's ballpoint pen. Outside of the hangar, there is a pink bottlecap nailed to a wooden pallet, soon to be conquered. Somewhere in the cold depths of Russia's mountains, there is the man who has earned my trust and love. For the first time in my life, I have a future. Not just any future: a bright one! Its light eclipses any darkness cast by the traumas of my past, even the ones perpetrated mere hours ago by Church.

_I finally get it, Barney. What you've been trying to tell me all along... is that happiness can only chase away as much sadness as I allow it to. _

"Are you done in there?" asks Trench loudly from the front door. "Or should I grab a camera?"

"When you wake up, Barney'll be here." Airy pats my leg affectionately. "Excuse me. I have a eunuch to initiate."

"Airy, don't hurt him," I implore with a yawn. "He is just an idiot. You cannot blame him for that."

My friend snorts contemptuously. "Watch me. Get in here, Megaphone. You too, Booker."

I drift back off of my own volition this time, to the sound of bickering made softer by reduced stress, then the television snapping on. Estimating grossly, I calculate than Barney is most likely crossing the mountains, getting closer to Santa the PBY. Imagining him treking over the pure white snow, in the company of starkly beautiful peaks and sweeping valleys, lulls me to sleep.

_I can't wait to see you again, love, _I think sleepily. I yearn to dig my fingers into his dark wavy hair, touch his strong jaw, wrap myself in his muscular inked arms. We had said and done an astonishing amount before he left, and made stunning progress in the fields of 'forever' and 'physical manifestation'.

Snuggling under the blanket, I smile to myself. I can't wait to show him what I've become.

* * *

**Barney: **

Sullivan and I make it to the Kresh's makeshift airfield, cut into the ice. Santa is waiting for us, his propellers spinning slowly in the stiff prevailing northern wind. I have never been so damn happy to see that smiling mug.

"_That's _your plane, mate?" asks Sullivan incredulously, eyeing the metal contraption critically and dubiously. "I've seen better sitting on the ocean floor."

"Hey, she's your ticket outta here, remember," I reply good-naturedly. "Provided we can get her going." Tugging on the strap handle for the door, the metal staircase falls outward and bangs on the ice loudly. Stepping into the plane, I reach into a locker and pull out two crowbars. "But first, we gotta de-ice her. She can fly with her bomb bay full, but not with weight on her wings."

Sullivan snatches the laterally tossed metal tool out of the air. "Fair dinkum."

We set to work freeing the behemoth machine from winter's crystaline grip. Once done, it would be a ten-hour flight home.

Home. Where my future is waiting for me. Where Meera is waiting for me.

Already my brain and body think I'm wrapped up in her, smelling her, touching her. Redoubling my efforts at chipping the ice at the landing gear, I grin to myself and let my mind wander.


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Note: Nearing the end. Only one or two more chapters. **

* * *

**Barney:**

Chipping the plane out of the ice takes about three hours. Breaking my arm only takes three seconds.

There's weather, more fucking weather. Is Russia ever nonviolent? I climb to the top of the plane to work on freeing the tail rudder, hauling the crowbar up with me. I'm almost done with the task, thinking about your warm skin and a warm bed, when a strong and sudden gust of wind nearly lifts me right off my feet. For a heartstopping split-second, I teeter in the breeze, knowing if I move my feet that I'll plummet fifteen feet to the tundra. _Stay still oh shit stay still - !_

A follow-up gust makes the decision for me.

With a roar of surprise, I tip off the edge of the plane ass-over-teacup. Instinct and training take over, and I try to correct by completing the spin to land on my feet, but I have completely lost track of up and down in the air clogged with blinding snow. It feels like I have whole minutes of debate during the tumble, frantically trying to orient myself. I fall for a startlingly long time and land with a sudden jolt on the frozen ground, my left arm pinned under me. My entire body goes momentarily numb, and my brain nearly with it.

"Ross!" hollers Sullivan, jogging to my side. "Ross, you alright, mate?" He crouches next to me, jostling me urgently.

I'm too stunned to answer for the moment, but damn, I wish he wouldn't touch me. The human body was not designed to impact like that, much less in a half-rotated way. First came the numbness of all the nerves priming, then comes the sting, then the _fire_. "Fuck," I manage to grind out around a groan. The dump of adrenaline helps drive the darkness from the edges of my vision, a belated gift from the actual tumble. With Sullivan and every inch of my body protesting, I push my free hand against the ground and lean up.

A bolt of pain like lightning leads me to a shocking discovery. "I just broke my arm," I grunt out with my sucked lungful, feeling the bones grind together in a nauseating sensation. Yep, it's hanging floppily in my sleeve, and there's a softball-sized chunk of ice under me that broke my fall in _just_ the right place. I've got luck, for sure. It's all bad.

"Well, shit," declares Sullivan without venom. "Way to go, Ross."

I finish sitting up, cradling the throbbing limb against my chest. The pain makes me want to vomit, but I hold on. "There's a medkit in the door," I gasp.

Sullivan walks rather than jogs to the plane to retrieve the kit, because the pieces of bone aren't going anywhere. Returning, he kneels beside me in the icy wind. "I'ma need to cut the sleeve."

"Do it," I grit out.

Trauma shears make an appearance, and the brush of them against my arm makes the injury scream. Clenching my jaw, I manage to keep my pain from escaping. "Ulna and radius?" I pant as Sullivan peels back the layers of heavy coats and longjohns.

"It is," he replies grimly. "I can see 'em both."

Looking down, I feel my tough-guy persona drain away along with the blood in my face. Two jagged bones are peeking out from the torn skin of my arm, leaking blood that is trying to freeze against the cold air.

"I'm not qualified to set the fracture," says Sullivan. "I can only splint and restrain it 'til we get Stateside."

"You - " Feels like Thor's hammer pounding my arm like an anvil." - sure?"

"This is way above my pay grade, mate. If I fuck it up, you could lose the use of the hand."

"Do it," I reply. Two words at a time. Just two words at a time, that's all I need to use.

The Aussie is as careful as he can be, but four raw ends of bone moving around above and below my skin make for some interesting noises coming from my mouth, along with many blue streaks. "There's no Ace bandages in here to pin it," Sullivan says, from the other end of my vision's tunnel. I feel the trauma shears graze my skin through a haze of pain. After several agonizing minutes, a few tugs of cloth strips, and the addition of a handy piece of ice for me to bite down on, Sullivan sits back on his heels and scrubs his pale face. "Done," he says shakily.

The splint (which was supposed to be a leg splint) came from the medkit, and it's fastened around my wrist and elbow unobtrusively. The strips of cloth that were once my ruined sleeve restrict the arm against my chest, wrapping securely around my torso in two directions. Some of the stuffing that fell out of the heavy thermal coat now pads the jutting pieces of bone, with more sleeve wrapped around it gingerly. I've gone as white as the snowstorm swirling around us, gnawing on the piece of ice like it's the last thing I'll ever eat. Taking a few seconds to collect myself, I wonder if you, Meera, sustained any broken bones during your time with Church. God, I hope not. This is painful as fucking hell.

"The ice is probably helping keep the swelling down," comments Sullivan, uncapping a syringe. "Show me some ass, big guy. Morphine time."

Grimacing, I manage to dig my good hand down through the layers of my clothing, presenting my reluctant nurse with a few target inches of skin. The prick of the needle doesn't register, as the cold takes the feeling as quickly as the skin is bared.

Spitting the ice onto the ground, I coax my numbed tongue into speaking. "Did you get the ailerons?" If the flaps on the wings don't work, pitch and yaw won't either.

"Totally ice-free," Sullivan replies, helping me to my feet. "But not for long, if we stay here."

"Then let's go."

"Wait a minute," he says. Bending down in the overhang of the wing, he gathers several large chunks of ice and wraps them in his first layer's jacket. "We can use these on your arm."

"Good idea." I'm inspired to give him a tight but genuine smile. If I can get him to quit Trench, Sullivan's ingenuity will make him useful to the team. And it'll burn Trench's ass.

As the Aussie climbs the steps of the plane behind me and wrestles the door shut with a loud creak, he asks, "How are you gonna fly the plane, mate?"

"With your help," I manage, my voice bouncing around even as the wind howls outside in competition. The mist of our breath is visible inside the shelter of the metal fuselage. "Have you ever piloted?"

"Some sims in the RAAF. You know, before they kicked me out."

"Just how long did you last?"

"To the 'getting in to the sim' part. Then I crashed it."

Great. All bad luck. "Retest time, kid."

"Right, then," he says, following me to the cockpit. "How does a PBY handle differently?"

"Same difference between a van and a Prius," I reply.

When he looks at me quizzically, I amend, "Like a MILF and a stern Asian mistress."

"Ah," he laughs. "Gotcha."

"I bet you do," I chuckle, toggling on some switches. The morphine is kicking in, thank God. "I'm going to take the copilot seat. Usually I sit on the left side, but you can't reach around me. So you're my left arm, now."

"Sweet. Promotion," says Sullivan with amusement, sliding into his chair. "Here, have some ice."

"Thanks." I slide the chunk under my arm because laying it on top would be agony, and arrange it so that the drips will not hit any electronics. "Turn the switch between your knees clockwise. That'll make the copilot controls function."

"Now what?"

"Don't touch anything until I say."

Moving slowly on the merit of the instruments, I taxi us onto the makeshift runway cut into the flat ice. Santa starts to gain speed, then lift, then gets into a heated argument with physics and the prevailing northelies.

"Thottle that silver hand up there to a count of three," I instruct.

Sullivan grabs the T-shaped handle and does as told. The wind shakes us in our seats, endangering, menacing. Santa starts to lift his heavy ass off the ice, I pull back on the controls, and through feeling and experience I fight us into a straight trajectory with one hand. In a few seconds we've cleared the mountains of the narrow valley, and are hurtling towards India's border.

"Keen as mustard," grins Sullivan.

"Damn right," I reply, paling as my arm's stabbing throb starts to break through my concentration. I want to shift lower in my seat to let the arm rest on my stomach, but the shuddering and groaning plane has other plans for me. "Wind's a bitch over the peaks," I mutter, gripping the controls more tightly. "Try to match my moves."

"Yep," replies Sullivan shortly, focus evident as he tries to block out the threatening weather.

With stoney faces, we stare out into the blur of flakes rushing past the cockpit window. It's going to be a long flight.

"So, Sullivan," I start, my conversational tone empowered with only half my attention. "You got a lady waitin' for you Down Under?"

Sullivan snickers, also only half-attentive. "Yeah, I do. Right now, I'm living in the US with her, so she's not Down Under." I catch him smirk out of the corner of my eye. "Unless it's my birthday or I ask really nicely."

I laugh, though it is cut off by a sharp burst of wind that I am forced to correct for.

"What about you, Ross?" asks Sullivan. "This Meera girl sounds crash hot, from what I gather."

Again, I correct the plane with his help. The wind howls, cheated. I remember Sullivan has not met you, and only has heard about you through the events during and preceeding this job, mostly through the guys on the team. I'm sure they represented you accurately. "Yeah," I say, smiling despite my snapped bones and defiance of death. "Meera and I aren't typical."

"Pray, tell."

"She's half-Nepali. I met her..." I trail off, as much due to the sudden jump of the nose as my censorship of your history.

"Go on, then," urges the Aussie, sweat breaking out on his brow as he wrestles the plane with me. "If I die today, I want to do it with a good story in my mind."

"Meera was in a pretty shitty place. I... fell for her the first time I saw her." Though I've never said the words aloud before, or even strung them together in my head, they ring true to my core. Thinking back, I remember that dim little hut, and all your blood, and your punished and naked body, and most of all your _eyes. _Spitting fire, raging at me from the floor, from your tied-eagle position you somehow managed to fuck the world even as it fucked you.

When I'd looked past that, I'd known you and I were meant, deep down. Even then, fate had started to twist the strands of our lives together.

"Love at first sight. I'm choking on the cliche," kids Sullivan. "Can't say I did much more than trip over my tongue when I met my girl, though. So, you took her home with you?"

"Yeah," I reply, smiling despite myself. I know the memory should be painful, but somehow remembering how your thin and grimy body curled against mine so perfectly only warms me.

"Fuck the green card!" cheers Sullivan strainedly as the machine around us shakes.

I chuckle, equally strained, and my broken arm flinches against my will, trying to help me muscle the plane around. "I nursed her back to health over a few months. It was a sort of no-man's-land relationship, at first."

"I've had those," grunts Sullivan, yanking his controls. "Don't know where you're going, what you're really doing..."

"Exactly. But my gut knew, and when she got back on her feet, she started to sense it, too. We became friends extremely quickly. More quickly than anyone else I've met."

"Yeah, funny how that works, eh?"

I nod, and this time the bucking plane doesn't make me white-knuckle anxiously. "So she already knew what I did for a living. As she healed up, she started to show interest. For a woman who's never touched a gun before or thrown a punch in her life to perk up when a shell casing hits the ground - that's pretty special."

"Seems like - and this is just me shooting my mouth off - she saw what you were and wanted a piece of it for herself."

"You're not wrong," I agree. "And it brought us closer and closer together until - "

The plane shrieks with complaint as it rips through an incubating hail storm, the _thunkthunkthunkthunk! _of impacting ice sounding like flak. After a long, breathless minute we bust through the other side of the massive, stacked cumulus cloud, and it swirls around the engine intakes like angry, grasping fingers.

"Until?" prompts Sullivan, running a sleeve over his brow.

"Until I couldn't hide how I felt anymore," I reply, sitting back slightly as I glimpse the first bit of blue sky I've seen in a long time. "I took a chance on all the little signs she'd been showing, and it paid off."

"So all that went down before you left for this clusterfuck?" he queries. I nod, and he whistles lowly. "Seems you had to leave at a very inconvenient time."

"You're telling me." I mind's eyes skitters back to the crazy kiss we shared in the kitchen, just hours before I stepped foot on the plane. And before that, sharing a bed. And before that, the long motorcycle ride. And before all of that, a monumental buildup of emotion and drive, and more repression than is healthy. God, stepping back from it all puts it in perspective. I was first blind, then ignorant, then reluctant, then suddenly slipping all over myself like the fall that broke my arm, careening out of control.

"I love her," I say. Three powerful words, spoken in the silence of a tin can thousands of feet above the earth.

Sullivan massages the controls without prompting and nods, eyes soft and unseeing. "Do you ever feel like mercs earn their happiness?" he asks quietly. "Like we put ourselves through all the shit so that, when happiness finally comes knocking, we deserve it?"

Reaching below my seat, I retrieve Christmas' flask of booze. "I hope I deserve Meera."

"Amen, mate."

* * *

I feel invisible strings pulling me closer and closer to you, to home. They drag me along the borders of many countries, over two rocky shores, miles of ocean, and several states. I have ten hours to contemplate, to worry, to wonder, to dream.

Will we be able to pick up where we left off? No, I doubt it. It makes me feel angry, like Church stole something precious from me. Deep in my soul, the Schizo roils in pitch blackness and snarls for his blood toll, but Church is already dead. Best place for him.

What will come, will come. Just like our first plane ride together, with your blood and bones and battered spirit showing, I'll deal with it one step at a time.

We drop out of the clouds like sedate thunder, riding much kinder breezes as we approach the hangar. Even though my mind is occupied with giving Sullivan instructions he barely needs and negotiating the descent, I smile at the distance that is rapidly closing between you and me.

"Um, Ross? Is the fuel guage suppossed to spin like that?" asks Sullivan.

I tap the dial, frowning as it reads true. At the tap of my fingers, the sketchy wiring reconnects and an alarm starts to sound urgently. "Oh, hell. We've been on fumes for the last ten miles. Hold on."

"Some plane, Barney!" he barks.

Like I waved a damn magic wand, the engine to my right starts to choke. I watch in resigned concern as it sputters and dies, the propeller stilling. What more could go wrong, really, in one trip?

"Oh, this should be fun!" shouts Sullivan, grappling the controls to compensate. We both strain to keep the plane balanced with two engines functioning on one side and a single on the other.

"Engage the landing gear," I snap the order. "Now! That blue button." I feel the change in drag as the wheels deploy. "We've got to even out the lift, or we'll list too far right," I grind out, thinking rapidly. "Cut engine one. First green switch."

"Got it."

Peering around the pale Aussie, I note the engine in question lose its viability. The controllers relax slightly in our hands, but now, we're dropping much faster than we should be.

"Okay, I need you to throttle the dead engines with those buttons. Milk their fuel so we don't fall outta the sky," I instruct tightly, my bad arm trying in vain to escape the bonds holding it still.

"We've gotta wait," he replies, just as tightly. "Do it at the right time, or we're screwed."

The sensation of partial weightlessness is horrifying. The ground approaches at a speed that makes my heart pound, and the sounds of the plane complaining about the aerodynamics fills my ears with creaks, metallic grinding, alarms, and the buzz of two overworked engines.

"Wait for it."

"I know."

"Wait for it."

"I am."

The tarmac looms, and Sullivan stabs the two buttons with one hand. The dead engines sputter, scream, and chug out ten seconds of full power. I focus on controlling what power they lend our descent while Sullivan chokes the engines and stabs the buttons, again.

"Yes!" I shout as we touchdown. The wheels bounce sharply, more than normal, but the heavy plane settles on its haunches and responds to my urgings to slow.

"Yeah!" cheers Sullivan, pumping a fist. "We made it!"

Santa is now shrugging off what's left of his fuel, and I'm so grateful he's not in pieces painted with our gore that I don't even complain when he chokes out in the middle of the tarmac.

With a soul-deep sigh of relief from both of us, we sit back in our chairs as the noisy plane completely poops out. Utter stillness.

"I didn't know a PBY could do that," gasps Sullivan.

Whipping off my seat harness with a sudden need to be _off this deathtrap, _I reply, "Me, neither."

Turning a sweaty and exhausted face to me, he says, "Shall we?"

We leave our gear on the plane, along with the heaviest winter wear, and let the clang of the dropping stairs and the bright sun welcome us to American soil.

"I think I'm off flying for a while," he declares.

"Are you kidding?" I ask, elbowing him with my good arm. "I'm offering you a job, after that."

"Fair dinkum, Ross?"

"Yep. I want you on the team. It'll have to be put to a vote, of course, but I think the guys already like you."

The Aussie looks pleased. "I think I need to talk to ol' Trench about ending my contract early. He kinda owes me one after pawning me off to Kresh."

"Keep me updated."

The sun beats down on us pleasantly, driving the last of the Russian cold from our bodies. Sure, we stopped actually being cold several hours ago, but somehow the saturation of the chill country has to be transfused by American sun to counteract the effect. It's a half-mile walk to the hangar, but we both have springs in our step, though for different reasons.

"What's that smell?" asks Sullivan.

"I dunno," I say, sniffing. It takes a riffling through my shady childhood to place the combination of cocoa and sugar, but finally, my brain spits out, "Brownies?"

We both pick up the pace. I don't know what to make of this. Who's baking in my house?

As we enter the shadow of the hangar, boots thumping, the front door opens. My heart soars, then deflates.

Booker stops dead. "Barney," he greets, as warm as the man ever gets, pocketing his cell phone.

"Booker," I reply, grasping his hand upon approach.

"I thought I heard a plane, but I wasn't sure," he continues, stroking his beard. "Who is this?"

"Trench's man. Shawn Sullivan, this is Booker. You may know him as the - "

"Lone Wolf," finishes Sullivan, extending a hand with a little awe. "Good on ya, mate."

"Likewise," says Booker cooly, but I can tell he already likes the guy.

"Where's Meera?" I ask, the pang in my heart now warring with the pang in my arm.

"You're injured," notes Booker, glancing down at my arm. "Compound fracture? What the hell, Barney?"

"Fell off the plane," interjects Sullivan.

"Is Meera alright?" I repeat, trying to get my point across.

"She's fine," Booker replies, placating me with a gesture. "Killed Church herself, you know." He watches the shock, then the amazement cross my features with a faint smile, like he knows something I don't. "Snapped his neck with her legs."

"Boss girl," comments Sullivan.

"How bad is she hurt?" I ask, trying to chill out. Recon, then mission.

"Knifed up pretty bad, all shallow. She'd been souped up with shrooms that made her sensitive, but they've worn off. January had to stitch her hip."

"January?" I interrupt. Ah, now I see the little VW parked in the corner, along with Trench's BMW and Booker's SUV.

"She was here when we got back. She _is _your friend, right?" he asks, not doubt suspicious of Airy's claims.

"And Meera's," I assure. "But how is she, really?"

Booker steps aside. "See for yourself."

I let my boots carry me trance-like into the foyer, past the hall of showers, and into the living room. The first thing I lay eyes on is Trench's lanky ass sprawled on my couch, flipping channels. Second, I see January's back, bent over my oven.

And then I see you. Brown-skinned, bandaged arms, dark wavy hair, taped nose. The embodiment of my home, on two legs. I had not expected you to be upright, much less baking, but I'll take it hands-down and gratefully.

"Meera." My voice isn't loud, nor is it soft. It just reaches across the space like an arrow of love.

You turn around, the potholders in your hands dropping along with your jaw. "Barney?" you ask, like you don't believe it.

I grin widely.

"BARNEY!" you shriek delightedly, bolting across the room.

"What the hell?" asks Trench, his hand falling to his holster as he sits up ramrod straight. "Oh, it's just you..."

"Oh, hey, Barney," says Airy, waving at me, stunned to find me there with no announcement. She shakes her head as you round the couch hastily.

You make it to the door where I stand, and I have just enough time to angle my broken arm away before you crash into me. Your arms, rough with bandages, wrap around me as tightly as you can, your momentum, weight, curves, and warmth sinking into me.

I grope for the back of your head, strike gold, and slant my lips over yours.

Your respond with a whimper of restrained, joyous tears, your nose bandage grazing my face. I barely hear our audience of four's remarks as I embrace your narrow shoulders, lift you to the doorframe so you're at my level, hold you there with my hips. You automatically wrap your legs around my waist, eager for a better angle for our kiss.

Bliss. Homecoming. Desire. _Love. __Pain._

"Ow, ow," I mutter, my heavily morphined fracture pinned between us.

You draw back, your pretty brown eyes beaming and hazy, no doubt a match to mine. With a gasp, you realize what I meant and drop to your feet. "You're hurt!"

"Just a broken arm. You, on the other hand - "

"Barney, love - "

"Shh," I murmur, putting my fingers to your lips. Then I cover those lips again with my own, the world falling away. "I told you I'd come home," I whisper.

"I never doubted," you reply fiercely, your hands in my hair.

"God, I missed you," I exhale, pulling you close again. Bringing air back in along with the scent of your hair, I finally, _finally _let my soul come to rest.

"Well," says Trench primly, swinging to his feet. "I know when I'm not wanted."

"Hey, Mauser," says Sullivan, stepping around me and you to announce his presence with a sardonic swagger. "Been donkey's years, eh?"

Trench's expression is priceless. "How in the hell did you - " he starts, then shakes his head. "Barney, Barney, Barney."

"You owe me, asshole," I say sweetly, pinning you to my side with my good arm. "I expect my account to be seven digits heavier by oh-eight-hundred."

"Oh, snap!" crows January. Trench glares at her. I'm loving this, and I feel you snicker next to me.

"They have been at each other's throats since they met," you supply with quiet mirth.

"I hope she kicks his ass," I reply. The atmosphere between the three who've been caring for you in my absence is a cacophony: hilariously acidic but united over a common cause. I squeeze your shoulder lovingly, and you tip your head against my ribs in response. You bring people together without even trying.

Booker puts his hands on his hips, cracks his neck. "Well, I'm glad you made it back, Barney. Meera."

"Thank you for the save, Booker," you say, touching his arm gently.

"Anytime, little missy." He touches the brim of his hat to the room in general. "Miss January, nice to meet you."

"Likewise," replies Airy, striding to him with a foil-wrapped square. "Brownies for the road."

"Thanks," says the Lone Wolf, gracing her with a genuine smile. "Hu-nee will love these. She's two months pregnant."

"So that's what the texting in the car was about!" exclaims Trench. "I thought you said you hadn't - "

"Your question prompted me to ask," replies Booker. "Turns out, Hu-Nee'd just found out this morning."

Everyone congratulates. The comraderie is thick among the soldiers and friends when a baby is enroute, despite the clash of personalities. Booker pauses to give a meaningful eye to me, and I nod in solidarity. Then he's gone, rolling his SUV away. Whatever Trench puts in my bank account will go right into Booker's. I owe him more than I can repay.

"Sullivan, you can hitch a ride with me," says Trench, walking briskly to the door. I step aside, pulling you with me.

"Trench," you say, causing him to stop but not turn. "Thank you."

The tall man's shoulders square, and he continues to walk.

"He doesn't do emotion, other than assholery," I console.

You give a half-smile, eyes watching him disappear into his BMW. I think he let you see a part of him he never shows, knowing that you'd keep his secret.

Sullivan sighs. "Some ding bats. Thanks for the airfare, Ross."

"Just Barney," I reply, shaking his hand. You bless him with a trademark smile, and he shakes your hand, too, albeit gently.

"I imagine I'll be seeing more of you, Miss Meera," he says, winking at me. "Arvo, all." The he jogs after Trench.

"Yeah, I'd better peace out, too," says January, moving to the door.

"Oh, no you don't," you exclaim, rushing her.

She laughs and returns your hug. "Thanks for letting me use your kitchen, Barney."

I didn't know I had until I walked in, but hey, I'm getting brownies out of it. "Sure. Thanks for tending Meera."

"Yes, thank you," you say, taking her hands.

"We'll have to do this again, under better circumstances. See you, guys." And our last guest vanishes into her car, then out of the hangar.

I grin down at you.

You smirk up at me.

As one, we reach for each other. Zero to sixty in two seconds, hostess to hot in even less. I pull you flush with my body and insist upon claiming your lips. You're practically eating me alive.

My mind is whirling, trying to make sense of all the distracting little holdbacks. Didn't you just get rescued from a CIA torturer less than a day ago? Wasn't I just in Russia? Weren't you a recovering rape victim when I left you last? What happened to change you into this woman who is bold, unapologetic?

Damn, you're leaving no room for argument! Your passion catches the dry tinder in me, and a fire blazes to life. I reciprocate with one hungry hand roaming your body. That is, until you accidenly nudge my bum arm.

"Fuck!" I grunt.

"Oh, I am sorry!" you say, running your hands down my chest and lightly fluttering over the makeshift splint. You give a huff. "You know where we have to go."

I growl with reluctance, trying to lean in to kiss you again, but you put a hand on my chest with a quirk of your mouth. "No. _No,_ Barney."

"But I want to kiss you all over," I whisper, the burn in my body showing in my eyes.

You giggle, and cup my face. "If you get seen by Gary..." You pause to insinuate yourself to me, breasts pressing alluringly to my diaphram. "Then I might be able to arrange that."

My eyes go wide, and I look down at you. Your eyes radiate love and desire, smolder with complete trust and simmer with assurance that was so hardwon. You mean business.

I grab your hand. "Then let's go to the doctor."

"Can I drive?"

"When did you learn to do that?"

You simply laugh and swing our joined fingers all the way to the truck.

* * *

"Shit fire and save matches, Ross," sighs Gary, rubbing his temples. "What the hell is this?" He gestures at the array of cloth strips and repurposed splint.

"I was kind of in a rush," I reply winningly from my seat on the exam table.

"Mother of God," he mutters, motioning Nurse Wanda into play.

"Hiya, Meera!" says the curly-haired woman, bearing a tray of instruments into the room. "Long time, no see."

"Hello," you reply warmly.

The nurse perfunctorily eyes your bandaged arms and nose. "Well, at least someone is keeping you cared for."

"Do not worry about me," you assure, placating her with a gesture. "I will heal quickly." You squeeze my good hand, and our gazes are like magnets sparking electricity.

Gary has been watching the exchange, especially you and me, and shakes his head. "Ross, you dog."

"What?" I ask defensively.

You giggle and make way for Wanda. Wincing along with me as the limb is cut free, you observe carefully as Gary and Wanda work in quick, efficient tandem. Five minutes and several more milligrams of painkillers later, the bones are set. My face is set like stone and pale, but your stroking fingertips on the back of my neck keep me grounded.

Wanda wraps the cast tape thickly while Gary shoots the breeze. "How are you doing, Miss Meera?" he queries, scrutinizing.

Your response is easy, with no hint of retained negativity. "I am doing well, thank you."

"May I?" he asks, motioning at your arms. "While you're here, anyway."

You shrug. "I see no reason not."

My jaw clenches in worry. Gary's liable to think your wounds are _my _doing. Isn't the boyfriend always the abuser? At the very least, he'll want to know where they came from. I have no answer for him that will avoid a 911 call. But what am I going to do: refuse you medical care? Hardly.

With a pair of sharp silver scissors, the good free clinic doctor slits the stiff bandages off both arms. When they fall away to show that their stiffness was due to the soaking of blood, I feel every muscle in my body clench with rage. "That motherfucker," escapes my mouth before I can stop it. I'm seeing the wounds for the first time, and it makes me want to pound the living shit out of something, preferably Church's corpse.

God, the knife strokes are like artful snakes, seeping and festered and everywhere on your arms. There's a ringing in my ears.

"Easy, Mr. Ross!" chides Wanda, putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me seated.

You tug away from Gary's clinical exam and step directly in front of me, your hands landing on my knees. "Barney, I am alright," you say softly, imploring me wih your eyes. "I said it once: I will heal quickly."

I momentarily forget about the doc and nurse in the room, my red-hazed vision zeroing in on you. "How?" I ask with hard desperation. "How in the world can you be _fine?_"

You turn the full power of your gaze on me, drilling into my soul. It's your very first Look. "You should know," you reply. "Better than anyone, how what I've been through makes me strong enough to challenge _this,_" you nod down at your ripped up forearms.

The red haze fades from my vision. With the roll of tape hanging off my half-casted arm, I bring your injuries close to my face. Calmly, I take in every nick, slice, and bruise from your busted up wrist to your needle-marked elbow. Then, I press a gentle kiss to the underside of your wrist, catching your smile and letting it soothe me.

You kiss me lovingly, and I feel the last of my tension drain away.

"I don't know how you came about these _cat scratches_," emphasizes Gary with restrained anger. "But I assume that cat is no longer a problem?"

"Damn right," I declare, relieved that he's giving me the benefit of the doubt. "And no _cat_ is every coming near Meera again."

Gary cleans and rewraps your arm while you stand next to me, your hip touching my thigh comfortingly. Wanda finishes wrapping my arm and gives me a sling for it. "It'll take about eight weeks to heal up, if you baby it," she warns.

"Do you still have that scar cream?" Gary asks you, deposting the old, red-stained wrappings in a trashcan.

"Yes, somewhere."

"Apply it every night, same as before. I think we can avoid the worst of the scarring." He turns to the rack of flyers on the wall, thumbs around, and pulls out a sheet with a black-and-white illustrations of a human arm moving different ways. "Now, I know he's a difficult patient," he stagewhispers, nodding at me surreptitiously. "But I think you can whip him into shape."

Your eyes are amused as you take the proffered flyer, scanning it.

"He needs to do those exercises every day after week four," he continues. "Can you make sure?"

Smirking at me in a way that makes the coals in my gut roar to a flame, you say, "Yes, I will."

Hopping down off the table, I shake Gary's hand. "See ya, Gary. Hopefully, never again."

He chuckles. "Tell me about it. They let any ol' riffraff in, nowadays."

You and I turn to walk out the alley entrance, hands automatically seeking each other, but Gary calls out, "Oh, wait. One more thing." He hands you another flyer with a wink. "See ya'll later," he says in a conspiratory tone.

You take a look at the title of the flyer, then press it to your chest with a blush and a goofy grin.

"What is it?"

You blush even harder.

"Come on, let me see."

Turning the paper for my inspection, I read aloud, "'Pregnancy and You.'" I am reminded of my dreams of you, naked and beautiful. I remeber asking the dream-you the very same question, and the dejavu rocks me. Cocking a brow at you, I ask, "Well? Whatcha think?"

Folding the paper and pocketing it with a secret smile, you sashay ahead of me to the truck without a word.

I pump my fist once, deliriously happy, and slide into the passenger seat.

* * *

Kisses turn into flamethrowers that bathe us both in fire. We take our time, touching, exploring, passion on a slow burn that threatens to melt sanity and skin alike. When I come to my senses, you're locked up under me and pushing against my chest. "Barney, wait," you plead, tone uncomfortable.

Immediately, I roll off you and ask, "What? What'd I do?"

"Nothing you did," you say cryptically, hands still seeking the ridges of muscle on my belly. "I just... need it different than on my back. Do you see?"

"I see," I reply, our breath mingling, medical evidence clashing with glistening skin. That was how you'd been abused. I can completely understand. "How, then?" I ask with dark, delicious intent.

You bite your lip until I rescue it, and we dissolve again into the feel of heat and want and arousal. When you break the kiss I open my eyes, and I have just enough time to see a devilish look cross your face.

Suddenly, _I'm _on _my _back, with you straddling me authoritiatively. Splaying your hands on my chest with an expression of pure lust, you purr and rock against my hardness. I growl, my hands flying to your hips.

To my shock, you grab my wrists and pin them above my head, your breasts coming close to my face. I take advantage for a moment, suckling a nipple into my mouth, until you arch away to eye me sternly. "Keep your bad arm still," you murmur. "We do this my way."

The amount of heat that pours into my gut at your command is obscene, unholy. Couple that with the fact you're wrapping the belt of the arm sling around the bedpost and my cast, I'm literally fit to be tied.

"You naughty little thing," I gasp as you explore my tattooed chest with your hot, slick tongue.

You chuckle in such a way that my nipple vibrates with it, and I move restlessly under you. "_Your_ naughty thing," you correct, pegging me with eyes overflowing with love and adoration.

I can't help myself: I bring you back up with my free hand for a searing kiss. "Marry me," I whisper to your lips.

"Yes," is your instant response, like you've been waiting for me to say it for nearly four months. Your dark hair curtains our faces. It's grown out since I cut it.

"I want you for the rest of my life," I tell you, thumbing your cheek, marvelling at my luck.

"You have me," you promise. "I want you forever."

"You had me from the first glance, baby. I love you."

"I love you, too."


	38. Alternate, I love you

**Author's Note: Here's an alternate way Barney and Meera confess their love. I typed and discarded it a while back, but hey, I gotta prime ya'll for the epilogue, which is coming soon. Enjoy!**

* * *

You've been living with me for this long, and it is more than a little amazing to me how easy it is.

"You know it's been around two months?" I ask vaguely.

You understand what I mean in moments. "Has it really?" you murmur.

"Yeah," I half-laugh with amazement. "Don't feel like it, huh?"

"Not at all," you reply with surprise. You hug one knee to your chest, and balance your chin on it. "Both the shortest and longest two months of my life."

I get that completely: short because you want to forget the majority of it, the awful parts, and long because you can't let them go.

The news comes back with a story about a really prestigious garden four counties over.

"Look at that tree!" you marvel. "There's nothing like that in Nepal!" The camera panning over the acres of landscaping stops on a live oak with dipping branches, perfect for sitting in, shady and with moss for a carpet underneath. The stately tree is laced with various sizes of Moroccan lanterns that light up at night.

As soon as I lay eyes on the tree, I know. It has to be now, tonight, and there.

I slide my glance over to you, still enraptured by the beauty of the gardens framed by a camera's lens. You've gotten so much better. In truth, better than I had hoped. You've gone from the ember on ashes to the phoenix, and your wings are continuing to get stronger. You hardly ever cry anymore: a few episodes of quiet, shaking sobs that break my heart with their genuineness, but they feel like maintenance of a healing process more than the establishment of a trauma. When I look in your eyes during and after those times, I see lessened pain. Pain, yes, but fading a fraction more every day. Some days you're quieter than others, and I know those are the days to throw an arm over you when we sit on the couch. Some days, you're eyes are so free that I have to take you on motorcycle rides, just so you can get it out of your system, or you might levitate into the air and combust into flame.

Your saucer-sized groupings with the pistols are shrinking to fist-sized, and I secretly special-ordered a .38 with custom engraving. It's due in a day, but I will be in the Himilayan foothills. That damn job for Kresh, a necessity for my life, is going to take me away from you for three weeks, maybe more. You'll make it, I know. But how well? And how will I make it?

You've made friends, too. Lou at the laundromat knows your step's cadence and gives you jokes straight out of the Reader's Digest. Gunnar and you burn up the phone talking over his textbooks, and I swear, you're helping him study for midterms. January has called twice, and both times you absconded with the phone to the cockpit of the plane. If I stand in the hangar during those calls, I can hear you giggling like crazy. I hear words like 'bra', 'perm', and 'syphilis', turn man-pale, and man-scurry away before my ears burst into flame.

The voice of God, the songs of angels, and the conversations of untethered women...all things not to be heard by men.

So, you're getting there. Getting adjusted. Getting steady on your feet.

Would I be knocking you off your tenuous balance if I laid it all down tonight?

I have to take a chance. You've seen me angry. You've seen me cynical. You've seen my version of scared. You've seen the darkness in me when I tell you stories late into the night, and you've stared it down unflinchingly. Christmas, the guys, and a multitude of other people may know more about my past, but you've seen the internal workings of me.

You're constantly showing me your strength, both newfound and ever-present in your personality. You encourage me to test you in various ways, like picking occasional word wars, arguing the perfection of your Isosceles stance, asking my opinion on your doctored Chicken with Thai sauce MRE. I have to take a chance on you.

One day, you'll wake up and wonder why you're still here. You'll realize you don't need me.

Little do you know, I will always need you. I, who hate dependence on anything, am so wrapped up in you that I can't fathom being without you.

It has to be tonight. I have to tell you how I feel tonight, or I could lose my chance.

"Wanna go?" I ask.

You know I mean the garden on TV, and look at me excitedly, but with some bewilderment. "Now?"

"Now," I confirm. Do you hear the change in my voice? The decision reflected in my tone?

Maybe so, because a microexpression just beyond glimpsing passes over your face like a shadow. "Alright," you say softly, smiling.

We don our leather and helmets, and roar out of the hangar.

The countryside is nice this time of night: the sun is going down, the bats are starting to flit, the biggest stars are starting to show. Riding now gives a lot of bang for buck. Times like these, we can take in one of the most marvelous transformations in nature: summer to fall, day to night. We ride the cusp of the season and the time.

I'm more than a little worried over what I'm about to do. I'm a glorified soldier, but I'm still a human. It boils down to two options: I'm either going to set fire to our relationship as it stands, or tip us both over the edge into the great unknown.

I'd take skydiving blind, like some of my previous jobs, over this.

If I do this and murder our bond in cold blood, you'll never trust me again. You won't want to sleep next to me, or accept my enbraces even when you're overcome with sadness, or be able to stand my touch or gaze. I will lose you.

And if you admit what I'm suspecting...well, we'll get to that part if it comes.

We rumble through county after county, passing a few cars, then one occasionally, then none at all. Night envelopes the world completely, and I turn on the headlight of the bike. The halogen cuts a swath through the dark, darted through with insects in flight.

In a matter of an hour, we make it to the front gates of this prestigious garden, which are after a simple dirt parking lot that is empty save for a few puddles. I guide the bike to a stop, and you dismount, take off your helmet, and walk over to try the gates. They rattle and clang when you lay a hand on the lock. Your shoulders slump in disappointment. "Oh, well," you sigh, returning. "We tried."

I refuse to take 'we tried' as a viable excuse, in any situation. It's part of why I'm one of the best mercs on the market.

I cut the light on the bike and take off my helmet. "Hang on," I say, a plan hatching.

With you watching queryingly, I wheel the bike into some bushes next to the ten-foot-high white brick wall around the premises. When I emerge from the shrubs, removing a wayward twig from my mouth, you chuckle.

"What are you doing?" you ask as I put my back to the wall and push my feet out from under me.

I crouch a bit more and cup my hands together. "We're getting into this garden. We're going over the wall."

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you take in the expanse of brick. "It's pretty high, Barney. I don't know..."

"It's alright. I'll get you up. Put one foot here, then step to my shoulder, then swing onto the wall."

The speed at which you swallow your misgivings tells me you want this, badly. You only hesitate for a second. With a dash of rapidity to your step, you plant one foot in my palms. I lift as you straighten your legs like a champion cheerleader, and you place the other foot on my shoulder, then the other to the opposite. I can feel you scrabbling at the wall, keeping your balance, but my back is braced against the bricks, a stable step. Your full weight squarely on my shoulders is about equal to a fully-loaded deployment bag, and hardly the heaviest thing I've hefted. The boots would hurt if it weren't for my leather jacket.

You are conscious nonetheless of your shifting weight, so instead of throwing one leg over the wall that is now at your waist, you bend in half over it, removing your boots from me, and by the time I turn around you're sitting upright, straddling the wall. "Hello down there!" you say cheerfully.

"Don't fall," I caution. "I'll be right up." I back up a few paces, get a running start, and spike it. I can feel the gym time agreeing with me as I use my upper body to lever myself up. Now, I'm mirroring your straddle and facing you.

You look mildly impressed. "That was kind of awesome, Barney."

I laugh. "Thanks, Meera. You should see me when I'm being shot at."

You snicker.

I lower myself down and land on my feet in the soft woodchip mulch. "Your turn."

Your apprehensive look tells it all. "Um, it's a long way down."

"You think you can lower youself down and land, like I just did?"

You shake your head fearfully. "I can't."

"Then hang on the edge, and I'll catch you."

"I can't Barney."

"Yes you can," I say firmly. "You got up there. Now you have to get down. Come on, just lay forward and swing over that leg."

You moan with fright, but do as bade.

"Now, slowly roll and shift over the side - good!"

You hang by your hands from the top of the wall, looking a little silly.

"Now, let go. I've got you."

Your breath comes fast, but I know your fear will outlast your strength. You can't see me to know I'm holding out my arms, ready and waiting.

Come to think of it, that's something of a metaphor.

You drop with a cry, and I catch you easily. My hands get you behind the knees, and your back thuds against my chest. I'm left holding you half-folded like a toddler.

Within a few pants, you twist your head to look up at me. I grin. "You did it."

"I think my heart stopped," you reply pitifully.

I laugh. "It was really only a four foot drop, and I was there to catch you."

"Still scary," you pout.

I let you down, and we take in the expansive view. The garden is nestled in a manmade valley, along the top edge of which the brick wall runs. The place is easily four acres square, and in the dim waning moon's light several smaller and well manicured gardens make up a sort of patchwork array. In the very center of it, there's the tree we saw on TV, its light glowing like the gathering place of legendary fae.

We walk slowly, enjoying the smells and sounds of the place. The crickets are a chorus' ode to the night, there's a night-blooming jasmine vine somewhere mingling with honeysuckle, and there are triangular trellises of huge white disk-shaped flowers that are open and easily the size of my hand.

Your wonder renders you silent, but I can feel the appreciation of the place radiating off of you. This is the sort of place you belong. You deserve to be here, surrounded by good smells and peace. I want to give that to you. For now, this will have to do.

By the time we make it to the tree, your hands are folded unconsciously to your chest. I'm a little ways behind you, letting you take it all in unobtruded by my presence. I am content to hear your sighs and small exclaimations of fascination.

You approach the tree with marvel, and it accepts you into the embrace of its light-laden branches like a lover. You spin slowly in place with your head tilted back, looking up into the branches dotted with lanterns, all lit.

"Come here, look at this," you urge in a reverent whisper.

I come to stand beside you and admire the view. Not the tree, but you. It's an image I want to remember forever. No matter what happens tonight, I want to always see you in my mind this way: blissfully amazed by the nature that so easily accepts you, bathed in this radiant glow, utterly without worry or care, your hair shining like raven feathers and your skin the color of warm earth.

"You're so beautiful," I say. It's so true, from the depths of me, that it feels as natural as the moss we stand on. I know my feelings are written all over my face, but here, now, with you...it's okay.

You look at me a bit befuddled, but your eyes are wide with recognition of what is on my face. "You think so?" you whisper, like you don't believe it.

"Yes," I say. "Meera, you stun me."

Your eyes are soft, receptive. You continue to watch me carefully. Is that expectance I see? I was right: you've known...

You're not appalled by my words, so I press on. "Meera, I don't know how to say this except in the simplest way I know."

With a curious, gentle, and slightly anxious smile, you urge me on.

"I've been agonizing for weeks, wondering if you were ready to hear it. If it was even fair of me to tell you."

Your eyes widen an infinitesimal amount, and your mouth opens slightly.

"The only way for me to move forward is to tell you. So, here it is." You know what's coming, and you don't seem to be afraid. You brave thing.

"I love you," I say. There's no orchaestral swell, no dramatic sweep of theme. Three excruciatingly simple words, and I am laid open like a body in autopsy. It feels like my entire being was wrapped up in the weight of that statement, and it rushes out of me with the words like water. I'm left empty: both dreading your responce and needing it more than my next breath.

Your duck your head and stand completely still.

A breeze bobs the lanterns and sighs through the trees, cool and misty. I'm balanced on a turning point of my future, my life, _our _lives. You're still not moving. Can I actually see you melting into the ground, fading into the darkness, disappearing before my eyes?

So slowly I'm not sure it's happening, your head starts to lift. You're smiling, and when you finally meet my eyes, your smile gets bigger. You say the sweetest words to ever hit my ears. "I know. I've _known_. I love you, too."


	39. Chapter 39

**Meera:**

You and I are finally one.

I never thought it would be this easy, letting a man touch me again.

I never thought my heart could heal, much less bear fruit for someone else.

Yet, here we are. Tangled in the soft sheets, morning light, our own love, and each other's arms. A wonderful concoction of knots and ties.

At the thought of knots, I extricate one hand and reach up to the bedpost, loosing your cast's sling. Your tanned face twitches in your sleep, and your brawny arms hug me closer. "Meera," you breathe. I kiss your forehead, mind whirling.

Really, it had been a bit of hurried genius to restrain your broken arm. If I hadn't, you probably would have hurt yourself further. And since there was no stopping either of us... Glancing at your face again, I feel belated, misplaced guilt. I know what it is like to be tied down in this way. I send up a panicking prayer that I haven't crossed some line.

You inhale deeply, signaling wakefulness, but your eyes remain closed. "Stop that," you murmur.

"Hmm?" I ask, tracing your jaw with my fingertips.

"I didn't mind," you continue, pressing a sleepy kiss into my palm. "I was pretty eager. Smart to keep the injuries out of play." Now, your eyes open to that beautiful brown that makes my heart stutter plaintively. "How you feelin'?" your voice is rough with sleep and concern.

Testingly, I turn in your arms to my back and stretch up and down. The white bandages on my forearms rasp on the pillow, and my toes point into the junction of the sheets and mattress. In the throes of our passion last night, I cannot recall even the slightest hint of pain, only the earthshaking feeling of plummeting headlong into love and floating in a hazy sea of desire, struck occasionally by lightening stabs of pleasure. For a moment, I marvel at the concept of painlessness. It has been my experience that such acts are always painful, to the point of excruciating.

I've never had a gentle lover. You, Barney, are electricity, sweet heat.

My shoulders are stiff from Church's games, the hip slice is stretching out, and the bruises pang with pressure, but otherwise, I feel alright.

It is glorious.

"Not awful," I reply, my shock evident.

You chuckle. "Yeah, I have that effect. But I meant _here_." You imitate my earlier motion, kissing my forehead tenderly. "And _here._" You press your lips to my sternum. I have learned through my readings of the heart's four chambers: all of mine seem to bounce out of sync at the damp lay of your mouth.

My mind is beautifully clear, fuzzy with happiness. My spirit feels rejuvenated, polished clean. I feel swept out and filled with dawn. "Also not awful," I reply, running my fingers through your hair.

You give me the sweetest, most honest, deepest loving smile I've ever laid eyes on. "I love you, Meera."

I smile and roll halfway onto your chest, avoiding the cast, my head over your lungs and heart. "I love you, too," I tell the organ through a few inches of bone and muscle. Whoosh, thump, thump, thump, whoosh. A melody of contentment that I could listen to forever. Sleep creeps up on us both again, slow as fog rolls in off the bay. Your fingers dance down my spine, avoiding cuts that no longer have consequence or meaning.

That reminds me...

"Hey Barney?"

"Hmm?" you're almost dozing again.

"I need to borrow the truck today."

You yawn, but don't question me. "'Mkay. Anything ya need help with?"

I trace a line of your tattoo. "No. But maybe unwrapping something later."

One brow flicks up over closed eyes. "Alright."

And we both fall into peaceful doze, in a world of our own.

* * *

With the utmost care, I drive the familiar route into downtown and park in the alley.

"Tool!" I exclaim, walking into the shop. "Tool, are you here?"

There is a sound of a motor working, and the elevator to his living space lowers with him in it. I hide a smirk at his fluffy black bathrobe and cup of coffee.

"You are up late," I say concernedly. "Do you feel well?"

Tool opens his mouth to speak, but a female voice echoes down the elevator shaft. "Who's there, baby?"

"A customer," rasps Tool back.

I am reduced to some stellar blushing, awkwardly looking at the ceiling. "Do you want me to come back later?"

Tool ambles closer, scratching his neck. His eyes are not at all sleepy as they peg me searchingly. "Did you...? And Barney...?"

I can't help the delighted grin that spreads over my face in reply.

Tool chortles, and gives me a bear hug that I wasn't expecting. He must hear my pain, because he releases me quickly. "I'm happy as hell for ya, kiddo." He notices the bandages peeking from under my sleeves. "What happened to - ?"

The elevator had been summoned, and now it returns with the owner of the female voice. She is clad with shockingly (by my standards for Tool) demure clothes, consisting of bell-bottomed jeans and a camisole with a peace sign on it. Her hair is streaked with occasional bouts of color and a few dreadlocks. "Hi, I'm Stella," she says warmly, extending a hand.

"Meera," I say, shaking it. I feel the urge to glance at Tool. "I'm not - erm..."

"I know you're not," she replies kindly, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "You're not his type." Straightening, she pecks Tool on the cheek. "'Bye, baby. I have class in an hour."

Tool's expression is more than I've ever seen him show relative to a woman. "Can't you play hooky?" he asks with what I assume are his 'get naked' eyes, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Quiz today," she says breezily, wriggling out of his arms with a smile.

"What's your major?" I ask, curious.

Stella pauses at the door to shoulder a backpack. "Psychology." And then she's unbolting the door and is gone. A moment later, a motorcycle roars to life, setting off a few car alarms.

I look back to Tool, and he's gazing after her with wistful passion. It gladdens me to see him so enamored, and a woman up to the task of him. Psychology would probably come in handy, in this relationship.

"Sorry," he apologizes. "So, you and Barney - ?"

"Yup," I reply.

He sips his coffee. "Finally. I thought I'd have to make a move on you to get him to respond."

I tilt my head. "That would have been a great idea, up until he shot you."

Tool chuckles. "Too true. What can I do for you at this - " he glances at a clock. "Too damn bright and sunny hour?"

"Remember what I said last time I was here?"

I watch the smile spread on his face. "I do. You think you're ready?"

"I know it," I say strongly. "I'm _whole_ for the first time in years, Tool. I want to celebrate."

He downs the rest of his coffee as he walks to a workbench. "I've got your design here. How much time you got?"

"Plenty."

"Then please," he sweeps a pigeonwing bow at the motorcycle-chair. "Step into my office."

After a short hiatus to get dressed, Tool bades me lift my shirt.

"Um..." I start, my hands twisting in the hem. "Do not freak out, the person who did this is dead." Steeling myself with an inhale, I claw the back of my shirt up to my neck and over, leaving it stretched across my chest and arms.

Tool's anger is palpable. "Dead, dead? Good and buried dead?"

Swallowing, I reply, "I snapped his neck myself." The words feel good to say aloud, like an affirmation.

"The only way to make yourself safe," growls Tool, lightly brushing my back full of shallow cuts. "Is to kill the bastards that threaten you. Preferably yourself, so it's done right."

Thinking back to the wet snap of Church's neck, and the feeling of relief that washed over me, I say, "I could not agree more."

"If you want to tell me about it," says Tool softly, starting to trace my back with an inkpen. "Then I'll listen."

I lean forward to stretch my canvas out for him. I ponder his words, but find the invitation unnecessary. "There is no need," I say. "But thank you."

Tool chuckles, shaking his dirty blonde hair. "Tough little thing."

Within thirty minutes, he's penned the design. With the aid of a digital camera, I approve the final design. I'm tense, but excited. I feel like this tattoo is the culmination of months of recovery, and years of becoming.

"The... cuts," the artist stumbles on the word. "Are fairly uniform. I'll incorporate their eventual scarring into the design."

"How fitting," I reply. How fitting that my scars become something beautiful, like worms to butterflies. Like coal to diamonds.

"I don't need to remind you," says Too, poised with a needle gun over my shoulders. "That this is permanent."

I smile into the chrome headlamp, where my chin rests on my arms. "I certainly hope so."

And with that, the gun buzzes to life, imbedding with hot scratches in my back.

I grunt faintly, breathing with great care, but it's not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Not nearly as bad as the things I have been through.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I sniffle.

"You okay?" asks Tool concernedly. "Too much?"

"Not enough," I say, with a slight wobble in my voice.

The artist nods, giving me a knowing and reassuring smile in the mirror, and continues.

Watching Toll Road get his ink so many weeks ago had not prepared me for the release that it was. All my angsts, worries, and ugliest stains escaped from those thousands of needlepricks. I cried quietly, my bandages absorbing, and basked in the feeling of the last vestiges of the hate and hurt reaped upon me wafting off my soul and into the air, never to return.

"You're a phoenix too, you know, little lady?" said Tool's gruff voice, puffing warm breath over my bare back. "All sooty and studded with embers."

He's forever a poet. But his words tug my heart. I feel a shift in the way I see myself: like a glacier moving, like the moon's phases.

_Rising phoenix. From ashes to flames. _

* * *

**Barney: **

I don't know where you go for six hours, and it almost kills me to not ask you before you leave. But I sense this is something you need to do yourself, so I bite my tongue.

I don't bite my tongue for anyone else on the planet. But then, you've always brought out the better parts of me.

So I wait, with some apprehension, for you to come back.

How incredibly good it is to hear your tires on the tarmac. I bolt to the door and meet you there.

"Hey," I say. My expression is doing most of the talking.

You beam at me, and I melt. "Hey," you reply.

I lean down for a kiss, caressing your lips and eventually your tongue. My hand comes to your back, and I feel you tense up.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

You cock your head sheepishly, still breathless from the kisses. "A little sore," you admit. But there is some gleam in your eyes that catches me. "I have something for you," you start. "But, forgive me, it's mostly for me."

My curiosity is piqued. "Okay." I have no earthly clue what you mean.

You pull me down for another kiss that becomes feverish. "Undress me," you whisper against my lips.

I'm already there, grasping the hem of your shirt and ghosting my hands up you sides, tickling your ribs lightly. I go to my knees so I can be eye-level with your breasts as they are revealed, lovely and firm and needing my touch.

But you step back a pace, eyeing me with love, hope, and a little anxiety. "Are you ready?"

I put my hands on my legs. "Okay."

You turn around.

I can't stop the sharp gasp.

Your back is splayed with inky feathers. A couple are ruffled artfully, like they have been subjected to rough flight. The rest have a quality of smooth strength, from pinions to secondaries. The coloring is mostly tones of gray and black on your coffee-with-cream back, but along the edges of each feather, there is a ribbon of iridescent color that makes me look harder. Distantly, I recognize the work of Tool.

But the scars from Nepal and the cuts from Church are what stun me most. The ruffled feathers follow the older, more messy scars, which serve as the midrib of each plume. The cuts from Church make for uniform pinions, the largest feathers draping down to your mid-back like silken cloth over your skin, like they are a literal part of you.

_Wings_.

I find myself behind you again, with no memory of having moved. You jump and gasp a bit as my hands grasp your hips, and my lips press to the center of the wings' origin, between your shoulder blades.

"Are you upset?" you ask softly, worried although you know better.

"No," I reply between light kisses of each vertebra. "I'm happy."

You turn in my grasp, and I am inspired to kiss around your navel. _"Barney."_

This is a woman who has been through so much pain and subjected to so much of the world's worst, she should have been ground to dust and scattered by the breeze. Indeed, a layer of herself was rasped away by the hurt, but it formed a bed of ashes. Fallen angel.

She hid there for a while, healed, grew feathers. With a breath, a light wind, her embers grew to life again. She burst forth from her soft gray prison and rose like a firework, a reverse meteor, a missile, a phoenix.

_Rising phoenix. _

Chill bumps run up my arms, crawl my scalp.

"I love you, Barney," you whisper, cradling my head to your belly.

"Meera," I reach up and cup your face. "I love you so much."

An eternity of the stuff stretches before us like an open highway.

* * *

**And that's all, people!**

**What an incredible journey, both for myself and Meera and Barney. I am stunned by all the love this story has gotten. I never expected such. **

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorite/followed once, multiple times, or anonymously. Thank you for letting this story into your hearts. **

**We can all rise from our ashes. What hold does the cold sooty bed have on us? The sky calls for us to streak across it, light it ablaze.**

**We are all phoenixes. If you look for that spark inside yourself, you will find it. **

**Godspeed to all. **

**Love, Kepouros**


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